


Thick As Thieves

by Kyokaen



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Companionable Snark, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Humor, I really wanted to write a realistic romance between Deacon and the Survivor, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s), Sarcasm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spoilers, and a lot a lot of snark, mild PTSD, so this is my take on how things might progress, with a dash of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 66,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyokaen/pseuds/Kyokaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So a clandestine spy and a former FBI agent walk into a bar and...whoops, wrong index card. At any rate, navigating the growing complexities of friendship amid a high-stakes operation can be rough. Especially if one of them is a pathological liar with a wealth of emotional baggage and the other is experiencing metaphorical freezer burn in an unfamiliar world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome To The Jungle

**NOVEMBER 24, 2287**

 

"You know, you're really good at this,” Deacon remarked once they had left the scene under the cover of darkness, keeping his voice low as not to attract any unwanted attention. “A little _too_ good, for a civilian who just crawled out of a vault."

He deliberately made it sound as though he had only _just_ made that observation, even though he’d been tailing her for some time now. The woman who referred to herself simply as ‘Sloan’ had piqued his interest a while back— _much_ further back than he was willing to admit to her, of course—and so far, he hadn’t been disappointed. Tracking her activities in Goodneighbor, Bunker Hill and finally Diamond City, the spy had learned Sloan wasn’t simply an ordinary woman on a mission. There was something else, something different. It wasn’t the fact that she had come from Vault 111, nor that she was born over 200 years ago. He’d met several pre-war ghouls in his time, and none of them were quite like her.

Deacon had his theories, of course. But there was only so much one could learn about a person simply by watching from a distance, and the job at Slocum’s Joe had been the _perfect_ opportunity to evaluate her skills firsthand. To begin with, he’d been fairly confident that the op would end successfully. Otherwise, no way in hell would he have brought her along. But seeing her in action, watching her demonstrate exactly why he’d been so eager to vouch for her, had confirmed his suspicions.

He mentally thanked Carrington for having thrown such a hissy fit about recovering the damned prototype, whatever it actually was, in the first place.

Sloan looked up, quirking an eyebrow in question. “Think so?” Though despite the query, she didn’t sound surprised, and he wondered if she’d been waiting for him to bring it up all along. It was certainly possible. She was perceptive; probably moreso than he had initially given her credit for.

Not only that, but this had obviously not been her first rodeo, so to speak. They had slunk through the shadows in the facility beneath Slocum's Joe, nearly undetected the entire time save for a tiny incident toward the end involving a turret and a land mine—luckily a synth strider had taken the fall for that and neither he nor Sloan had been injured.

But on the whole, the complications had been minimal. _Far_ less than what he’d been prepared for, even when running an op with someone he’d deemed experienced. Deacon had watched the way Sloan hugged the walls of every room on high alert, gun held at the ready before her, only moving on when she was sure that all was clear. He noticed how she'd kept a wary eye out for traps all around them, all her movements deliberate and cautious. And he definitely hadn’t missed the manner in which she sidled up against a wall before opening doors with one hand, letting it slowly swing open, peering around the corner and then stealing inside gun-first.

She was a natural, he already knew that going into this. But it was more than that. He saw a sort of discipline in her movements, a method that could only have come from extensive training and field experience.

"You've done this before," Deacon replied without even a hint of uncertainty, glancing sidelong at her through tinted sunglasses and waiting for a reaction. "You don't strike me as the military type, but I'd _definitely_ put caps on you having some kind of covert ops experience."

Sloan had been walking alongside him in mostly silence, admiring the sleek black pistol she’d acquired. It had once belonged to Tommy Whispers, but upon finding the deceased agent in the vault, Deacon had passed it on to her. Hell of a weapon, really, and in her hands it was sure to carry out its true potential. And the look on her face when he’d given it to her? _Priceless._ He had caught her off guard and she’d failed to school her bewilderment in time, her gaze shifting rapidly from his face to the gun. Perfect. He could practically see the gears turning in her head, no doubt trying to discern his true motivation for giving her such a special weapon. Was he testing her? Manipulating her? Demonstrating a sign of good faith?

 _“I can’t take this, I…”_ She’d shaken her head, staring at the offered weapon with hesitance despite her obvious interest. How long had it been since he’d last encountered someone with a sense of honor like that?

Deacon had tossed it at her right then and there, leaving her no choice but to reach out and catch it. _“Too late, it’s yours!”_

Oh, yes. He could tell he was going to enjoy working with this one.

She nodded in the darkness, turning her head towards him. "You'd be close. I was…" She pursed her lips, clearly hesitant to divulge the information, and he was trying to figure out if that was because she wasn’t entirely sure that she could trust him, because she didn’t think he would understand, or because talking about her pre-war life was still too painful for her. "I was an FBI agent," she finally replied, her voice dropping an octave, and Deacon decided that the answer to his wonder was ‘ _d.) all of the above_.’

"Ah, now _that_ would explain it," he said with an intentional air of recognition. "I thought it had to be something like that. So you were with the feds? Unfortunately, you'll find the criminal justice system is a tad defunct these days."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I might have noticed that when the ghoul I showed my badge to tried to eat my face. Talk about resisting arrest."

Deacon chuckled, pleased that she’d responded well to his lighthearted joke. " _And_ a sense of humor. This could be more fun than I thought!"

Sloan snorted good-naturedly. "Hey, don't get _too_ excited. To be honest, it's been a while since I've worked in the field, and that's not counting the two hundred years I spent as a popsicle."

Deacon’s eyes turned back to the road ahead, noting the hint of melancholy in her tone. It took him a moment before he understood what she meant by that, but he didn’t offer any sort of comment to indicate as much. Now was probably not the best time to pry _or_ let slip that he knew much more about her personal journey than he was supposed to. She hadn’t told him that it was her infant son the Institute had stolen from her, nor that she’d lost her husband to their vicious pet mercenary, Kellogg. All of that was information Deacon had picked up while he’d been keeping tabs on her throughout the Commonwealth.

"Well," he said, breaking the solemn silence that had settled over them, "if it's any consolation, you don't seem to have lost your touch."

Sloan huffed softly, tucking the Deliverer into the waistband of her faded jeans. "Thanks."

Deacon nodded toward an alley between two large buildings and motioned for her to follow him. "We can take that path back to HQ. Come on.”

He led the way back using a shortcut he was familiar with; a left here and a right there, up those stairs and across that balcony, down the escape ladder and through this walkway. All the while he could feel her eyes on his back, watching and wary, still unsure what to think of him. This told him that she was sharp, and didn’t trust easily. That was good. The Railroad needed more people like her.

Conversation was infrequent, though Deacon occasionally found reasons to point out a ruined landmark or make some sort of wisecrack on the décor. Aside from acknowledging his comments, Sloan remained quiet. He figured she was either deep in thought or simply not in the mood for small talk, so he fell silent himself after a while. Before long they were rounding a corner and approaching the church, following the familiar red line past the statue and toward the faint glow of the lantern sitting on the front step.

“You know,” she finally spoke up once they had descended the stairs that led into the winding underground tunnels, “I’m a little worried about your security protocols.”

He cocked his head back toward her. “What, is it the ferals? Because trust me, _that_ was not my idea.”

“No. I actually enjoyed the real life interpretation of Dawn of the Dead,” Sloan replied dryly, and then shook her head. “But that’s not it. Look, I came prepared for a fight. Dr. Amari told me it wouldn’t be easy to find this place, and it wasn’t. So imagine my underwhelming surprise when I finally get down here…and the password is ‘railroad.’ I mean, really?”

“Hey, these days being able to even _spell_ ‘railroad’ is cause for celebration.”

“I guess that’s true,” she admitted. “ _Very_ depressing, in fact. Still, that would be like if I had set my personal email password as ‘Sloan.’ Well…not that our software even allowed that. You needed to include three consecutive letters, numbers, symbols, at least one capital letter, a drop of your own blood and an _ancient fucking glyph._ ”

He sniggered. “If you want that kind of technology, you’ll have to pay a visit to the Brotherhood. Hell, if you’re lucky, they might even gift you with your very own superiority complex.”

She grimaced. “I’m good.”

“Aaanyway,” he drawled as they continued on through the passageway, “you just saw the Switchboard for yourself—security there was about as good as it gets out here and the Institute _still_ managed to crash our private party, passwords be damned.”

They were stepping through the front entrance in short order, greeted by Drummer Boy and Glory on the other side. The both of them had likely been awaiting their return, curious about the newest recruit whom Deacon had been so eager to vouch for. Drummer Boy immediately retreated into headquarters to retrieve Desdemona, since newbies weren’t allowed inside without the big boss’s say-so. Security protocols, etcetera.

So the moment she appeared in the brightly lit room, Deacon gleefully proclaimed, “This one’s officially a keeper, Dez!”

Desdemona gave him a scrutinizing look as he jogged up the steps toward her. “I take it everything went smoothly?”

“Smooth as a baby’s behind, thanks to the new girl, here,” he said, casually jerking a thumb in Sloan’s direction.

Sloan responded with a slight roll of her eyes. “What he’s trying to say is that we got the prototype.”

Where was this girl’s sense of adventure? Deacon was going for a story with a bit more _flair,_ something to build her up, so he immediately waved a hand to dismiss her painfully boring statement. “Aw, she’s being so modest! Seriously, you won’t believe what just happened, Dez. It was incredible! So we came across this minefield out front, right? Must have been at least fifty of the suckers, plus a dozen Gen 1s on patrol. We were picking them off from a rooftop when all of a sudden a Deathclaw—”

“Two Deathclaws,” Sloan interjected, quick to catch on.

“ _Two_ Deathclaws _,_ ” Deacon repeated with emphasis, delighted that she’d picked up his beat, “came charging right into the fray! They were bowling over the synths left and right, until some friendly fire had them fighting each other instead. Sloan here got the bright idea to shoot one of the mines from, I kid you not, _three hundred feet._ Boom! Everything exploded. We made it down into the Switchboard and man, the place was just _crawling_ with Institute baddies. From there it was just one hail of bullets after another. I took some fire, rolled off the balcony and busted up my leg. Fell _right_ into a whole crowd of Gen 1s. Thought I was done for, but then _this_ girl came charging in and wiped them all out with a single round! One shot actually took out _four_ of them at once. Then she patched me up, put me on her shoulder and blasted her way through the rest of the complex. Synths _everywhere!_ There had to have been at least a hundred of them.”

“It was one hundred and _seven_ , actually,” Sloan corrected him, throwing Desdemona a matter-of-fact look and proving to him that she wasn’t a bad actor herself when she put her mind to it.

Deacon shrugged. “Oh, my bad. It was kind of hard to see it all from over your shoulder.”

Desdemona was glancing cautiously between the two of them, looking as if she were trying to decide if _anything_ about that story was actually true. She was accustomed to taking everything Deacon said with a grain of salt, though it wasn’t often that he found someone else to play along. “That many? I can’t even imagine…”

“Yep! That’s how it happened,” he assured her, hands on his hips as she squinted back at him.

Desdemona turned her attention onto Sloan, studying her carefully. Deacon saw her eyes flicker down to the new girl’s belt, where Tommy Whispers’s Deliverer was currently holstered.

“I was expecting Deacon to grab a full team, including Glory, to secure that prototype,” she said, obviously impressed with their results regardless of whether or not she believed anything Deacon had just said. “But instead, the two of you cleared out the entire Switchboard by yourselves.”

Deacon gave her one last push, though at this point he knew it wasn’t necessary. “You’d be _insane_ not to sign her up, Dez.”

The redhead’s sharp eyes were still fixed on Sloan’s. “Well, you’ve certainly made an impression on Deacon. He’s never spoken about—or lied about—anyone so highly before.” There was a short pause before she gave a subtle nod and said, “Welcome to the Railroad, agent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story that began like any other—in the middle of the night as a drabble that wouldn't leave a hopeless nerd's headspace. I just have so many feels about my survivor, man. So many. And I wasn't happy about Bethesda making F!Sole a lawyer, so I came up with something cooler and much more plausible, in my mind.
> 
> Deacon not being romanceable bugged me at first, but now I'm over it, because it just means that I get to play around with my own version of how a relationship might develop between he and my survivor. This man is my kind of complicated, let me tell ya.
> 
> Anyway, enough rambling from me. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think! I love feedback in all forms, be it long or short or gently critical or just completely random nonsense—lay it on me, peeps!


	2. Every Superhero Needs A Sidekick

**NOVEMBER 24, 2287**

 

Sloan found herself thinking back to the year of Shaun's birth, which, to say the very least, had been a complete roller coaster. It had started off with an incident during a case at work that ended up sending her to the hospital. Fractured wrist, they told her after taking an x-ray. That same day, after the lab took a look at her bloodwork, a nurse had entered her room to inform her that she was pregnant. An ultrasound confirmed it—almost two months along.

She’d taken the news about as well as any other woman in her position would. That is, if one considered vomiting into a potted plant and having to breathe into a paper bag while the nurse tried to calm her down ‘taking it well.’

It wasn’t as though kids had never factored into her plans for the future. It just hadn’t happened at a good time. Nate had been deployed overseas at the time—looking back, Sloan supposed they could have been more careful during the time he’d been home for the holiday—and she hadn’t been the least bit prepared to deal with a pregnancy on her own. _That_ had been a fun conversation to have over the phone, especially the part where her call had been dropped three times while she was trying to break the news to him.

And so for the next seven months, Sloan had been confined to a desk and a mountain of paperwork within the office. It was excruciatingly boring, and she desperately missed the action. The rest of her unit was always sure to fill her in on all that had happened during the latest case, though, and she’d been counting down the days until she’d be able to return to the field. She made plans to spend two months on maternity leave after the birth of her son while simultaneously getting herself back into fighting shape before finally getting cleared to go back to work. Nate returned home at the end of July that year, and the timing couldn’t have been better; Shaun was born three days later.

By the time October had rolled around, Sloan was preparing to return to her unit in the FBI. Nate had enrolled in evening classes at the Commonwealth Institute of Technology, allowing him to spend more time with Shaun and look after the boy while Sloan was at work.

2077 had been a complete whirlwind, but beneath the chaos and the stress, there had been a great big glimmer of hope for the future. Nate was home. Two had become three. And despite the challenges, their life together was supposed to begin again.

But as the saying goes, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. And they went awry in pretty much the most dramatic fashion imaginable when the bombs dropped.

_So much for that big, bright future._

Presently, Sloan was spending her first night as an official Railroad agent in the crypt of the Old North Church. Deacon remarked that it wouldn’t have been his first choice as far as bases go, but they’d been desperate. And while they had obviously done the best they could with a limited space, after having seen their old set-up at the Switchboard Sloan could see for herself how much the Institute’s attack had shaken the Railroad; how far they must have fallen. She recalled seeing corpse after corpse during the op earlier, strewn along walkways or sprawled onto the ground, Deacon sometimes muttering names under his breath as they passed. It must have been a horrible thing to live through, she’d thought, and tried to picture how she would have felt about losing her entire unit in a similar fashion. Deacon had been very matter-of-fact while explaining the incident to her, but Sloan imagined revisiting the place couldn’t have been easy for him. After all, weren’t they his colleagues? Friends, even?

By now, much of headquarters had gone dark. Most of the agents were asleep, though some remained awake, either on watch duty or completing other tasks. Tinker Tom had been hard at work on the courser chip all night, and currently sat before his computer screen while mumbling to himself. Gibberish, as far as Sloan was concerned. She didn’t understand a word of that technological lingo. That had always been Nate’s forte, not hers.

Unsure of what to do with herself, Sloan supposed she might as well find a place to sleep…or, at the very least, _pretend_ to sleep. A row of dirty mattresses lined the corridor that led toward the back entrance. Deacon had pointed them out during a quick ‘tour’ of the place, adding that although the area was the draftiest, it also afforded the most privacy.

So she claimed the mattress set in the furthest, darkest corner and sat down rather unceremoniously. Unzipping her pack, she pulled out a half-full bottle of purified water and took a few small sips while thinking over everything that had happened that evening.

Her first ‘official’ task, if one could even call it that, had been to deliver the recovered prototype to Dr. Carrington. He was immediately cantankerous upon meeting her, apparently miffed that he’d not been included in the decision to recruit her.

 _“We know next to nothing about you, and yet Dez has invited you into HQ,”_ he had griped, pinching the bridge of his nose. _“It would’ve been nice if she had consulted with her second-in-command first.”_

Sloan had shrugged, not offended in the least. _“I get it. Structure is important in an organization like this. You have every right to be skeptical of me. It’s your job. And it’s_ my _job to prove myself a worthy addition, so I hope you’ll give me a chance.”_

Carrington harrumphed, though he seemed to warm up to her a bit after that. _“It’d be nice if our veteran agents thought the same thing,”_ he grumbled under his breath, shooting a particularly scathing glare in Deacon’s direction. _“Still, I suppose what’s done is done. If you really want to prove yourself, then we might as well put you to work.”_

And so she’d been assigned her first mission, which entailed helping one of the Railroad’s field agents with a runaway synth. In the morning she was supposed to locate the dead drop near Bunker Hill and go from there, and considering Tinker Tom was still working to decode the courser chip, Sloan supposed she had some time to do it.

It was a little crazy how this had all happened, considering she hadn’t planned on joining the Railroad when she had followed the Freedom Trail to their headquarters. They were only supposed to have been a stepping stone toward her end goal of finding her son and taking him back from the Institute’s diabolical clutches. But as it happened, the Railroad was also eager to take the fight to the Institute, which meant they all had more common ground than she’d expected. And if allying with them meant joining the fight for synthetic freedom, then hell, she was alright with that.

 _“Would you risk your life for a synth?”_ Desdemona had asked upon their initial meeting.

Sloan had immediately thought of Nick Valentine. He was someone she considered an important friend; he’d helped her immensely and hadn’t asked for a thing in return, and as far as she was concerned, he was as much a person as any human she had ever known. Perhaps even more. If the synths in need were even half as decent as Valentine, then Sloan figured she owed it to him to do what she could to help them.

Her answer had come easily. _“I risk my life for_ people. _Human or synth, it doesn’t matter.”_

Finding Shaun was still her sole focus, and while she couldn’t afford to become sidetracked, she also knew that helping the Railroad would likely bolster her chances of success. Might as well pitch in a little and do some good in the meantime.

A noise from around the corner shook her from her thoughts just then. Sloan aimed her Pip Boy toward the direction it had come from just in time to watch Deacon appear in the corridor.

“So, how you holding up?” He asked, his figure tinted green from the light. He leaned one shoulder against the brick wall, giving a nod to her set-up. “Looks like you’re making yourself at home. I mean, you even went and stole my bed. And to think, I vouched for you.”

“I didn’t see your name on it,” she teased, fairly sure that he was just messing with her.

“I happen to have very small handwriting. You just didn’t look hard enough,” he quipped back with a shrug. “But look, I wanted to run something by you. Since we made such a good team earlier, I was thinking we should keep a good thing going and travel together some more. If you don’t mind a, uh… _sidekick,_ anyway _._ ”

Sloan’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Every superhero needs one of those, right?”

The offer was more than likely an effort to keep a close eye on her, given the fact that despite his intel on her, she was practically a stranger to the group and there was no way of knowing whether or not she could truly be trusted just yet. It made sense to her. It was smart. And if she really wanted their help, the best move she could make would be to allow him to accompany her…even if doing so meant that he’d learn more about her than she’d been willing to divulge until that point.

So after a short silence, while she pretended to consider his offer, she nodded her consent and decided to start with the _real_ reason she was after the Institute. “Okay…if we’re going to be traveling together, I…there’s something you should know.”

Deacon spread his arms slightly. “Lay it on me, boss.”

“Alright, well… When Desdemona asked me why I wanted to go after the Institute, I told her it was because they took someone close to me…” Sloan hesitated, but only for a moment. This was the best chance she’d have at finding Shaun. If there were any way that Deacon could help her, she knew she had to give him more information. Any little scrap, even bits that seemed irrelevant, could potentially help. “I left out the part about how that _someone_ is my son. He's just a baby,” she said, her eyes dropping to her Pip Boy and idly studying the dimmed screen in the darkness.

He shook his head, glancing away for a moment. “Aw, hell. Just when you think the bastards can’t sink any lower, now they’re snatching babies?”

“His name’s Shaun. I don't know what they wanted with him, I can only imagine...” She shook her head, fighting the tightening sensation in her throat. When had crying ever helped? “Fuck, he’s only three…four months old." Or he  _was,_ anyway, last she had seen him. It was difficult to tell how much time had actually passed while she'd been on ice. And if what she had seen in the Memory Den was true, then Shaun was no longer the tiny, helpless infant he had once been. She paused to take a breath and run a hand through her messy hair. “That Courser chip is my first and only real lead since this whole thing started. If that doesn't pan out...I don't know. It'll be back to square one--up shit creek without a paddle.”

"Hey, happy thoughts here," Deacon encouraged her. "You getting that chip, that's...well, that’s a _big fucking deal_. And if I know Tinker, he’ll have that little doohickey decoded in no time. There’s no way that thing won’t give us some answers.” He paused, listening to Tom muttering under his breath from the next room, before he added, “Don’t sweat it. We’ll get your boy back. That’s a promise.”

Sloan stared up at him for a moment, wanting to believe that more than anything. Blind optimism wasn't the best thing to go on, but really, what else did she have? It was that, or hopelessness and despair. And if she succumbed to the latter, then Shaun didn't have a chance at all.

She watched as Deacon pushed off the wall, holding up a hand and bidding her a good night.

As he walked away she whispered, “Thanks.”

 

oOo

 

**NOVEMBER 25, 2287**

 

As it turned out, Old Man Stockton had orders to ‘deliver the package’ after dark, which left Sloan and Deacon with quite a few hours to kill once they’d arrived at Bunker Hill. By the time nightfall rolled around, Sloan had paced the perimeter about half a dozen times and browsed every shop at least twice. Deacon had disappeared for a while, citing that he had to use the bathroom. She realized a half hour later that this had been a blatant lie, even though he returned just before dusk with some excuse about how every toilet from here to Goodneighbor was clogged, damn it all. Sloan never asked where he’d _really_ gone off to. It wasn’t her business.

Once the raiders were cleared out of the rendezvous point, they met up with Stockton and the synth. H2-22 was meek-mannered and shy, preferring not to say too much, although he did express a genuine appreciation for what they were all doing to help him. He seemed grateful to have escaped the Institute, and for the chance to live his life on his own terms. It was the most basic of freedoms. The kind that people in Sloan’s time had by default. Anybody should be granted at least that much, shouldn’t they?

Not long after Stockton fired up the signal, an agent calling himself High Rise showed up to guide them to his safehouse. This, of course, was not the casual stroll through the streets of Boston that it once would have been and included the usual obstacles like packs of ferals and drugged-out raiders shooting up anything that moved. In the end, the group arrived at Ticonderoga relatively unscathed with the ‘package’ intact.

Sloan found herself more than a little fascinated by H2-22, though did her best not to stare. Like Glory, he was a Gen 3 synth. Much different than Nick Valentine; if she hadn’t been explicitly told that H2 was a synth, she wouldn’t have been able to spot a difference. He looked, sounded and _acted_ human. So did all the other synths hiding out at Ticon, as she came to realize when High Rise had invited them inside. They each had unique thoughts and feelings. They were expressive. They felt hunger and fatigue, they bled like any other living being. With an inward shudder, she recalled the Courser she’d killed in order to acquire the chip within his head. He’d experienced pain and even death. Until that moment, she’d not been sure that such a thing was truly possible. The Gen 3s were able to blend in nearly seamlessly. How could anyone ever tell who was or wasn’t a synth? Had she met more of them in her travels without ever knowing? She had to wonder, was the Institute truly aware of exactly what— _who_ —they’d been creating?

“So, you getting the hang of the Railroad yet?” Came Deacon’s voice from behind her just then. “We’re just one big, dysfunctional family. With guns.”

Pulled from her thoughts, Sloan turned away from one of Ticonderoga’s dirty windows to face Deacon as he sauntered over. “Yeah? Birthdays must be a real kick in the pants.”

“Oh, they are,” he replied with a chuckle. “Last time Tinker Tom threw a party, I woke up in the middle of the Mojave Desert with a Fat Man, a tricycle, and an army of mole rats at my command. Really cool story, I’ll tell you all about it sometime.”

Sloan snorted at what she was sure had been a lie, although he appeared to be using it as an attempt to entertain her and lighten the mood a little. She’d learned quite quickly that he did that rather often. Unlike anyone else she’d ever teamed up with, Deacon was a real mystery. She was used to being able to read her colleagues fairly easily, yet there she was, still trying to gauge him. Sloan found herself intrigued, yet wary.

Secretive and sly, Deacon had a reputation for deceiving even those among the Railroad he represented. Yet he went about it all with such a laid back, jaunty attitude, even when his words were met with hostility from other members. Plus, his eagerness in regards to making her a full-fledged member despite knowing jack about her struck Sloan as an oddity. That action seemed to directly contradict his nature as a distrustful loner. Even as an outsider, she could tell that much about him. Thinking back to the previous day, she recalled Desdemona saying that Deacon had never expressed such a strong interest in anyone before.

_“Well, you’ve certainly made an impression on Deacon. He’s never spoken about—or lied about—anyone so highly before.”_

_That_ meant something. It was no secret that Sloan was a special exception—but _why?_

True, Deacon had admitted to having done his homework on her—she’d gotten him to confess to keeping tabs on her activities in Diamond City and Goodneighbor. But there was more to it than he let on. There _had_ to be. Sloan was convinced that he must know something that she didn’t. Why else would he have been so keen to vouch for her? To speak more highly of her than he’d done for anyone else? What was it about _her,_ specifically? There was no way he could have known about her history as an FBI agent…or was there? If that had been the case, wouldn’t he have already said so? It seemed that whatever it was that had given him such a good feeling, he was choosing to withhold it from her.

“Anyway, that’s not what I came over here to talk about,” Deacon continued, and Sloan realized he’d been talking the entire time she’d been lost in thought.

She shrugged, trying to look as if he’d had her undivided attention all along. “Okay, what’d you want to talk about, then?”

“Well, now that you’re actually listening to me,” he said very pointedly, though his tone indicated that he wasn’t upset in the least. “Here it is: I’m used to flying solo. But I gotta admit, working with you makes me think I’ve been missing out. Having someone watching your back is…refreshing. Especially since you never know when the Institute is watching…”

Sloan nodded. “Yeah. It _is_ nice, right? I’m used to working with a team, but this…duo stuff is new. You’ve really never worked with a partner before, though?”

“Not for a long time,” he replied. “Besides, partnering up in the Railroad can leave you vulnerable. One more person who can finger you to the Institute.”

Damn. He worried about traitors even within a secretive organization like the Railroad? Sloan had a feeling he wasn’t just speaking from the standpoint of pure paranoia.

“So,” Deacon continued, “I’m betting if anyone else back at HQ knew your situation, they’d be jealous. You took the Big Nap, and everyone you knew is long gone. Now—” seeing her mouth open to object, Deacon held up a hand, “—hear me out on the silver lining. If a human in the Railroad slips up, then they expose friends and loved ones to danger. You’re safe from that.”

Those words had felt like a slap in the face, and Sloan could only gawk back at him for a few seconds before her brain finally caught up to the anger that had flared up within her chest. She cocked one eyebrow, her sharp eyes flashing ire as her voice came out in a low, warning tone, “I’m _safe_ from that? Do you have any idea what that sounds like to me? It may have been over two hundred years ago to the rest of you, but to me it was almost _yesterday._ The last thing I remember is the sky being on fucking fire and people _screaming_ in terror.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden images invading her mind, opening them a moment later to shoot him a glare. “You really think that’s anything to be fucking jealous of? Tell ‘em I’ll trade places any day of the damned week! My friends, my family…I never even got to say goodbye. So yeah, you’re right—everyone I know is dead. Thanks for that reminder.”

He immediately backpedaled. “Aw, Jesus, I—I didn’t mean that,” he insisted, and although Sloan couldn’t see his eyes, his tone seemed regretful enough that she decided he probably hadn’t intended to upset her. “Look, if the Church gets compromised and the Coursers are on our tail, at least you won’t be putting more people in harm’s way. That’s all.”

Sloan frowned, still a bit peeved, but she could see where he was coming from. Her former career hadn’t come without similar risks; jilted criminals had been known to target the families of agents on occasion. She’d heard her fair share of horror stories. It had been one of the reasons she’d been so nervous about having a baby to begin with.

She finally sighed and accepted his reasoning. “Alright. Fair enough.”

“It doesn’t matter much to me,” Deacon continued. “I’m a synth. At least that’s what they tell me, anyway. So I really don’t have anything to lose. For Glory and me and the others, it’s easier to dedicate ourselves to the cause.”

“Wait, what?” Her brow furrowed. He could be lying, but he could also be telling the truth. She couldn’t possibly know either way, considering how indistinguishable synths were from humans. “ _You’re_ a synth? Really? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

He shook his head. “I don’t like talking about it. I was one of the first synths they did the whole ‘cranium reboot’ on, so it was a bit of a botched job. Most synths have fun fake memories. A happy home, a family. Me? I got nothing. And that…well, it does something to you.”

Sloan was silent, processing this. Deacon, a synth? Like Glory and H2-22 and Nick Valentine…? She was trying to keep an open mind about all of it. After all, someone without any memories probably _would_ be prone to making up whatever sorts of stories they pleased. Compulsive lying as a response to a traumatic event wasn’t unusual. Furthermore, the act of fabricating such grandiose tales often could be linked to memory deficits in a person’s brain. If that were true of Deacon, then perhaps even _he_ didn’t know the lies from the truths.

“So,” Deacon continued, watching her chew on her lip in silent thought, “here’s what I’m getting at: since we’re traveling together, I want you to take this.” He fished around in the pocket of the dusty leather jacket he was wearing, producing a small piece of folded-up paper and holding it out to her. “It’s my recall code.”

Sloan’s eyebrows shot up. “Why are you giving that to me?”

“Look, the Institute has your kid, right? So if this whole courser chip thing doesn’t pan out and you really need information on them, read this code to me.”

She gave him a wary look, her eyes flickering from his face to the piece of paper between his fingers, and it didn’t take her very long to figure out that she was being played. A cagey spy handing out a code that could erase all his memories in an instant?

 _Please._ He probably wasn’t even a synth, she realized.

So after considering this for a moment, Sloan plucked the paper from his fingers and opened it up, reading the words aloud. “You can’t trust everyone…?” She gave him an expectant look, folding her arms over her chest.

Suddenly Deacon began to convulse. “A-a-a-ah!”

Her eyes went wide just then, heart leaping into her throat as horror washed over her. But before she could think to regret what she’d just done, Deacon stopped shaking and began to laugh.

Sloan scowled, resisting the urge to smack him. “Oh my god, you are such a shit.”

“Ha! Did I have you going there?” He gave her a cheeky grin, looking quite pleased with himself.

She could only roll her eyes and give him a shove when he continued to snicker, feeling silly for even momentarily falling for such a dumb ploy. She should have seen that coming, really.

“Look, don’t take it personal,” Deacon said, still looking terribly amused. “I lie to everyone. Maybe I’m just another human that has people back home he wants to protect. Then again, _maybe not._ ” The last two words were spoken in a cliché robotic voice, and then he laughed again.

Sloan raised one eyebrow, still sulking a little. “Is there a point to any of this, or do you just enjoy fucking with my head?”

“Oh, I _definitely_ do. But alright, listen—” His grin faded as he held up a hand. “I’m supposed to be showing you the ropes in the Railroad, so let’s say this is lesson, well, whatever number we’re at. That code I gave you is a hard truth. You _can’t_ trust everyone. And before you say anything—I know, I know. That’s not exactly a new concept for someone whose job depended on being able to read people to catch the bad guys. But the thing is, sometimes you just can’t tell who is human anymore. Even if someone sounds sincere, they could be a synth replacement working for the Institute.”

He certainly wasn’t wrong about that, she thought to herself, as evidenced by her musings earlier that evening.

“The bitch of the problem,” he continued, “is recognizing the ninety percent of the time someone’s on the up and up and the ten percent of the time you’re being played.”

Sloan conceded with a short nod. “Alright, point taken. But you’re still kind of an ass,” she added with a slight smirk on her lips.

“Ha. I guess I earned that. Anyway, that’s all I had.” He looked pointedly at the sky out the window, which had lightened considerably during their conversation. “So unless you want to stay and chat some more here, we should probably head back to HQ and let Carrington know your first official mission was a success. If we leave now, we might even make it back without waking the raiders from their drug-addled slumber parties.”

Sloan exhaled a small laugh. He was so damned difficult to read. But despite the lies he told her, he’d been quite dependable on the field thus far. Furthermore, all the Railroad members seemed to respect him, albeit grudgingly in some cases. That definitely wasn’t without reason.

And so even though Deacon was obviously hiding something from her, Sloan decided that whoever—or _whatever_ —he was, she could safely count him as an ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH, that whole 'silver lining' crap he says during that affinity talk pissed me off. Like, really, Deacon? You're gonna try and tell the Survivor that the fact everyone they knew died is a good thing? I love you to tiny, bitty little pieces my dude, but that was some poor-ass wording! So it was nice to address that here, lol.
> 
> Also, I really love the mental image of Deacon riding a tricycle into battle with a Fat Man and a hundred mole rats marching along behind him ;D


	3. Charmer

She had picked the codename 'Charmer' for herself. After working with her for a short time, Deacon had to agree that it was an apt choice. She was charismatic and witty; people were drawn to that. She also knew exactly what folks wanted to hear and how to manipulate a conversation to her benefit. At one point, he joked that she could probably convince a damned Deathclaw to reevaluate its life choices and walk the other way. Unfortunately, that theory was disproven the first time they'd encountered one together and were both chased through a desolate field, across a crumbling bridge and up a fire escape. Thank god for that fire escape.

She told him that her job had often required her to be able to sympathize with criminals, even when nothing could be further from the truth. Many of the situations she'd been in had seen her dealing with emotionally volatile offenders who sometimes had hostages or were otherwise in a position to hurt others with their actions. She had learned much about how to put up a front and use her words to resolve conflicts. Of course, here in the post-nuclear Commonwealth, such tactics were often futile, but he had to appreciate her inclination to try.

Their styles meshed rather well, which he'd been pleased to discover. It was part of the reason he liked traveling with her and had continued to do so even when her adventures had nothing to do with the Railroad itself. He'd always wanted to use his skills to help out humans as well as synths, though Desdemona tended to focus entirely in the latter. Deacon couldn't fault her for that, of course. But this little sideshow had been a prime opportunity to help the needy and the downtrodden of the Commonwealth, considering Sloan's penchant for pitching in. She was driven by her one and only objective of finding her son, but even so she still couldn't help herself, and Deacon in turn couldn't help but admire that.

Upon their return from Ticonderoga, Tinker Tom greeted them with good news; he'd finished decoding the courser chip while they'd been away and had loaded a copy of its data onto a holotape. While there was still much more that he could glean from the chip, Charmer had gotten what she'd initially come for and could continue onward with her personal mission.

Whether or not that mission also included helping the Railroad remained to be seen, but from what Deacon had experienced in his travels with her thus far, he wasn't terribly concerned.

Charmer readily accepted the holotape and her eyes practically lit up as she turned it over in her hands. The look on her face was genuine when she met his gaze and said, "Thank you, Tom."

"You don't have to thank me," he replied with a meaningful nod. "Just keep doin' what you do."

Charmer gave him the barest hint of a smile, taking a moment to tuck the holotape safely into the pocket of her travel pack. She turned back toward Deacon, who had been casually sipping a refreshment and pretending that he hadn't been watching their interaction from the corner of his eye.

"Where we off to next, boss?" Deacon set his empty glass onto the table he'd been sitting at.

There was a short pause. "Well, I have to take a trip somewhere unpleasant," she replied. The look on her face alone was enough to tell him that much.

Charmer hadn't been very forthcoming with a lot of the 'why' or 'how' regarding her procurement of the courser chip. She was playing it smart, not giving out information unless absolutely necessary. Desperate, but not stupid. He could respect that. Still, gathering information was Deacon's forte and he had a pretty good idea of where she intended to go…and an even better idea of the risks involved.

So he decided to give her a little push. "Sure you want to head out alone? After all the adventures we've had lately, I'd get pretty bored hanging around here."

She quirked an eyebrow in question. "Really? Drummer Boy was telling me you're the best agent the Railroad has. Don't they need you here?"

"You might have noticed, but my job here is intel. I can't do that if I'm sitting on my ass at HQ. The more places I go, the better."

"Ah," she answered with a nod. "Figures."

Without saying another word, Charmer turned and made for the exit tunnel. She hadn't exactly refused the help though, so Deacon followed along. When they reached the door, she slowed to a stop and turned to look at him, her bright eyes studying his face…or at least the parts that weren't covered by his sunglasses. He didn't need to be a mind reader to realize that she was weighing her options. Trying to decide whether or not it would be worth having a partner along, and whether or not he could be trusted with whatever he might find during the excursion.

"Okay," she finally said with an air of hesitancy. "The place I need to go next, it's in the Glowing Sea."

Deacon feigned a look of surprise. "What? Wow. You really are crazy. How exactly do you plan on getting there and back without your skin sloughing off in the process? You happen to have a suit of Power Armor in your pocket?"

"No," she admitted. "I managed to get my hands on one the last time I went, but…after a run-in with a bunch of overgrown scorpions on the way back, I ended up having to ditch it. So if we're both going…"

Deacon nodded. "Say no more. I know exactly where we can find a couple suits. Might not be in the best condition, but good enough to get the job done. It's just going to take a little trip down to our friendly local military checkpoint. And by 'friendly,' I mean 'overrun by a pack of murdering Gunners.' Working plan is: we sneak in, grab the gear, and we're out before anyone blows our heads off. Piece of cake, right?"

"And here I was, all worried that it wouldn't involve potential bodily harm." Charmer gave him a wry smile and then turned to push the door open.

"Then rest assured, you won't be disappointed." Deacon stepped out after her, making sure the door was shut securely before they headed out through the tunnel. "How'd you end up getting your hands on a suit of Power Armor in the first place?"

She walked along the large pipe ahead of him, careful not to slip in the dim lighting. "I may have borrowed it from Cambridge Police Station. You know, except without asking first."

"Stealing from the Brotherhood?" He snorted in amusement. "Man. This just keeps getting better!"

Charmer exhaled a short laugh. "Yeah, well…it wasn't too difficult to work my way into their good graces. Help them kill a few ferals, a few pretty words, and I was in. They needed the help, but I needed that suit. So I waited for an opportunity and made off with it first chance I got. I'm betting that I made their shit list pretty quick once they realized what happened." She shrugged with an air of indifference. "Not that I really care. I wasn't exactly impressed with what I saw."

Deacon almost couldn't help the sarcasm that bled through his words. "What, not a fan of elitism, xenophobia and racial purging? Yeah, I figured as much. Years ago in the Capital Wasteland, they weren't bad. They were actually trying to help out the little guys. But now with Maxson in charge, they've been reduced to a bunch of bigots in Power Armor. Oh, and with a wealth of lost technology at their disposal. There's also that."

"Wait, Capital Wasteland? Is that what I think it is?"

"If you're thinking the remains of what you would've called D.C., then yeah, that would be it. I spent a lot of time in the area, back when I was a soldier. Sometimes I miss it there. You can actually drink the water without worrying about growing an extra arm."

"You were a soldier?" Charmer's tone indicated skepticism. "Right."

Deacon chuckled. He had taken to telling her little lies here and there, just to see if she would catch them or not. Sometimes she'd simply call him out on it or counter his lie with a more ridiculous one of her own. Other times she'd stare back at him for a moment and say nothing, as if she were trying to decide whether or not his statement could be true. A part of him was relieved that he could manage to fool her despite her knack for weeding out bullshit.

That was risky, though. He'd have to be careful around her. Drop his guard even a little, and Charmer might be able to pick up more than he intended to put down.


	4. Badlands

Sloan wasn't stupid; she knew the risks she was taking by allowing Deacon to come along. Virgil was a scientist formerly of the Institute after all, and knew a lot of their secrets. She was potentially putting him in danger by bringing an outsider into the picture.

But the last time she'd made the trip to the Glowing Sea, she'd only made it out alive thanks to sheer dumb luck and a well-aimed grenade. The scar above her eyebrow was proof enough of the harrowing journey. Her odds of pulling that off again on her own were pretty narrow.

So in the end, she didn't have much of a choice. Besides, as far as partners went, she could do worse. True, Sloan wasn't entirely certain that she could trust him just yet. But so far he'd been quite reliable in the field, even if she couldn't say the same for what came out of his mouth.

This time had proven no different. They managed to procure two sets of Power Armor with little trouble, thanks to the Gunners' general lack of intelligence and Deacon's knack for sneaking in and out of places without leaving a trace, and the following trip to Virgil's cave had gone far smoother with a second person along. Not to mention it was rather nice to have someone to talk to amid the chilling atmosphere. Sloan wasn't going to admit it, but the first time she'd ventured into the Glowing Sea, the experience had been just like a scene straight out of a horror movie. She'd buckled down and dealt with it, not allowing her fear to jeopardize the mission, but she'd definitely regretted declining Valentine's offer to help. Him channeling Kellogg back in the Memory Den had freaked her out, but not nearly as much as the hazards of the Glowing Sea, as it turned out.

It had all worked out, though. With Deacon at her side, they made the trip in half the time. Sloan was able to meet up with Virgil, who gave her plans for a teleportation device in exchange for the holotape Tom had provided. In return for his assistance, Virgil had requested that she find a serum for him within the Institute and she'd readily agreed.

Everything was coming together. She could scarcely believe it. If she were being perfectly honest with herself, when she'd first stumbled out of the vault, she'd had doubts. Her own experiences at her old job had taught her that once a child was abducted, there was generally a 24-hour window to find them alive…and those cases almost never ended well either way. There had been times when her search seemed hopeless, but at the end of the day, all she could do was keep pushing forward...if for no other reason than the fact that she needed answers. A reason for why her son had been stolen. A reason for why her husband had been murdered. Nothing made sense, and discovering the Institute's involvement in all of it only added more questions to the ever-growing pile.

But seeing her son—her Shaun—in the fragments of Kellogg's memories…the feeling had been indescribable. He was alive. Certainly not the baby she'd remembered, but she had already considered the fact that he could be older by now. She'd known immediately that it was Shaun. It was unmistakable. His face, his voice…she would never forget the way her heart clenched in her chest as she relived that memory through Kellogg's eyes, the nearly overpowering urge to reach out and touch him, and most of all the resolve that instantly grew from flickering flame to raging inferno.

In that moment, for the first time since she'd woken up to this miserable Commonwealth wasteland, Sloan had felt hope.

He was out there. Alive and at the Institute. And she didn't care what sort of seven fiery hells she'd have to march through to get there; she was going to get him back.

For now, Sloan was in a much better mood as she and Deacon retraced their steps back toward the safety of Boston.

"Power Armor's not really my style," Deacon was saying as they trudged through the bleak, green-tinted badlands, his voice sounding slightly mechanical from beneath the helmet he wore. "It's a little too 'here I am, over here!' for me. But you gotta appreciate feeling nigh invincible for a while. Also gives me the inexplicable urge to crush a Radscorpion under my shiny metal boot while shouting a cliché Latin phrase."

"All you're missing now is a big-ass gun to overcompensate for—" Something squished under Sloan's foot just then and she made a face. "Oh. That's never a good sound." Looking down, she noticed what the dark, gloomy atmosphere had hidden from view until that moment. "Is that…?"

"The gooey leftovers of a…whatever-that-was?" Deacon offered. He followed her gaze, noting a trail of gore that disappeared over the ledge nearby. "Shit. Let's get away from here. I don't fancy a rematch with a Deathclaw. Especially when there are no fire escapes for miles."

Sloan felt her blood run cold at the thought, vividly recalling their last encounter with one of those overgrown lizards. "Yeah. Good plan."

So they backtracked, giving the area a wide berth, eyes scanning the perimeter and weapons held at the ready. They made it about fifty feet in the other direction before a thunderous roar split the air.

Fuck.

"Run!" Deacon urged, and the two of them immediately broke into a sprint across the rough terrain.

Unfortunately, they weren't nearly as agile in Power Armor as they were on foot. The ground shook beneath their feet as the creature drew nearer.

Sloan cursed under her breath. It looked as though they'd have to fight it, as opposed to camping out at the top of a fire escape while dropping Molotov cocktails onto its head like the last time. And while they were well-armored now, she happened to be fresh out of cocktails.

"And what have we learned today about optimism?" Deacon turned to quickly chuck a grenade behind them. "Let me direct you to Exhibit A!" The following explosion nearly drowned out the sound of the creature's growl.

"I think you just pissed it off!"

"Really? How can you tell?"

The smoke screen, fleeting as it was, made a nice cover while they worked to put as much distance between themselves and the Deathclaw as possible. But it had caught their scent, and before long, the nuclear fallout's answer to Jurassic Park was in hot pursuit again.

Sloan barely saw it coming, and had even less time to avoid it. The Deathclaw slammed into her with all the force of a freight train, knocking her clean off her feet. She hit the ground hard. All the air was pushed from her lungs upon impact, leaving her coughing and gasping. The creature held her down, one clawed hand raking over the front of her Power Armor, which thankfully took the brunt of the blow.

Shit.

It had her. She tried to wriggle out of its grasp, but found herself trapped under its weight. She wrenched a hand free, reaching for her gun and burying bullets into its body wherever she could, but to no avail. Its claws seemed to hang in the air for a moment before descending upon her again.

She cringed, but then heard gunfire. A bullet pierced the creature's skull, then another, and another. Angry, it bellowed in pain as a fourth sent it reeling backwards.

"Apply! Repeatedly! Until! Dead!" Deacon shouted with each shot.

Swiftly, Sloan rolled away from the Deathclaw's path and was able to stagger to her feet. Taking several steps backward, she resumed firing the rest of her round into the mutant lizard while Deacon paused to reload his rifle. Whenever it lunged forward, they'd fall back. It was slowing down, becoming confused and weakened.

Finally, after several rounds and Deacon's last grenade, the creature let out one final cry as it writhed and then collapsed onto the ground, sending dust billowing up around it.

Breathing hard, Sloan watched it for a moment, making sure that it wasn't going to get back up. When she was convinced that it wouldn't, she lowered her weapon and sighed in relief.

"Well, it's mostly made out of lead now, but at least it's dead," Deacon remarked. "Oh, and we wasted pretty much all our bullets taking it down. Yay?"

Sloan snorted, her heart still pounding after that experience. "Let's just get the fuck out of here before its friends decide to show up for the funeral."

"Shame, I'd have given a nice eulogy." Deacon fell into step beside her, taking stock of her suit's condition. "Looking a little worse for wear there. You okay?"

She reached up to adjust her crooked helmet. "Yeah, I'm fine. Can't say the same for this thing, though. It's taken too much limb damage. I feel like I'm trying to walk through a swamp."

Deacon gestured toward a crumbling bridge in the distance. "That's the edge of the Glowing Sea up there. We make it to that bridge, and we're safe to leave these things behind."

Sloan chuckled. "You know, it's actually been pretty nice having my own personal wasteland guide hanging around."

"I do occasionally moonlight as a tour guide, but don't tell Dez." He played along as they made their way toward the bridge. "The Glowing Sea, voted the number one vacation spot seven years running! Now coming up on your left, you'll notice a big pile of radiation-soaked boulders probably inhabited by giant murderous scorpions. And if you look to your right, you'll find a vast empty space of depressing nothingness. It's said that the Children of Atom once grew their sanity over there."

She laughed, appreciative of the distraction. After what felt like ages trudging across the terrain in slow-moving Power Armor, they arrived at the edge of the 'sea.' As soon as her Geiger counter stopped ticking, she immediately exited her Power Armor. Deacon followed suit, although his hadn't taken nearly as much damage as hers had.

"Good riddance, clunky fashion statement," he said, mockingly dusting off his hands as they walked away. "Helped us beat down a Deathclaw, at least."

Sloan nodded as she fell into step beside him, announcing in a mocking tone, "Ad victoriam!"


	5. Orphans of the American Dream

**NOVEMBER 31, 2287**

 

"Ugh…" Deacon grimaced, spotting a couple of severed heads on pikes while he and Sloan sidled along the backside of a crumbling apartment building. "A raider's calling card. I don't have a weak stomach or anything, but…that's starting to make me regret the mirelurk steak I had for lunch."

Sloan's eyes fixated on the heads for a moment, taking in the gruesome, twisted expressions that hinted at how horrific their deaths had been. "Sad thing is, this isn't specific to post-war shenanigans," she replied, keeping her voice down as not to be overheard by possible enemies. "Granted, it seems to be more, uh…prevalent these days."

"Yeah? I figured you pre-war types were a little more, I don't know, _refined._ " He craned his neck to look around the corner, making sure the area was secure before they proceeded.

She snorted softly, keeping close behind him while her eyes remained trained on their surroundings. "People have _always_ had the capacity for heinous, twisted shit. The way it manifests is the variable. How else would you explain the war? Vault-Tec? High school shootings?"

"Aha. Good point."

"I remember for one of my first cases, we were called in to track down a serial killer down in Jersey. He'd keep an eye from every person he murdered. Trophies. We found a collection of seven or eight in his refrigerator after we nailed him."

"Now _that_ is just messed up." Deacon paused to peer through the scope of his rifle, spotting a raider patrolling the stairwell ahead. They'd have to take care not to raise any alert, else risk returning to HQ looking like a couple wedges of Swiss cheese. "I personally prefer to collect things like coins or comic books. Less blood to wipe off."

"I always liked shot glasses, myself." She followed him as he ducked into the shadows, checking her silenced pistol to be sure it was loaded and ready, having seen him spot the armed threat high up on the building. "Anyway, we didn't get as many cases like that as all the crime thrillers would've led people to believe, but it still happened once in a while. Particularly in areas notorious for a lot of drug trafficking and debauchery." She shrugged one shoulder, looking pointedly at a decapitated body strung up by chains nearby. "So it doesn't exactly shock me that most of this…wasteland décor…is done by raiders hopped up on chems."

"Yeah. You know, I'll bet they thought the heads really went great with the drapes."

Sloan exhaled sharply, the loudest she dared to laugh under their present circumstances. They slipped into an alley and began making their way toward the other end, where they'd be able to sneak down to a parking garage and get inside the hospital from there.

After their return from the Glowing Sea, Tinker Tom had taken a close look at the plans Virgil had parted with. In order to build the teleportation device to get Sloan into the Institute, they were going to need to scavenge a _lot_ of parts for Tom to work with; some of which could most commonly be found in a medical facility. Sloan had written down a long list of things needed for the device, and the next morning she and Deacon hit the streets.

The streets that happened to be crawling with super mutants, raiders and feral ghouls, that is. Because what fun would a scavenger hunt be without obstacles?

Deacon stole down the darkened concrete stairwell into the parking garage. Sloan followed close behind, keeping her back to the wall so her eyes could scan both entry points for any sign of enemies. When he slowed to a stop at the bottom and tilted his head toward the doorway, it didn't take her long to figure out why; heavy footfalls came from within the garage just ahead, and as they listened, they could hear the deep, unintelligible grumbling of a particularly bothersome rival. Scratch that, _two_ bothersome rivals.

Super mutants were much nastier than raiders, but certainly better than a Deathclaw on its worst day. Her first encounter with a group of the green-skinned abominations had been nothing short of petrifying for someone fresh out of a vault, though by now she had grown accustomed to seeing one tromping around here and there.

Still, the suicidal ones made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, and as she watched Deacon's face for any sort of feedback, she could see a faint red light reflecting off his sunglasses.

Well, shit.

He glanced back at her, giving a slight shake of the head as he slung his rifle across his back. She understood; it was too dangerous to risk trying to shoot the suicider. If the ceiling collapsed from the force of the explosion, she and Deacon would likely end up sharing a tomb with the mutants.

So she holstered her own pistol and raised an eyebrow in question.

Carefully, he stepped away from the door and leaned toward her. "Okay, new plan. Muties don't have the best eyesight, so I suggest we try sneaking past 'em." He reached over his shoulder, pulling a small leather-bound device from his pack and passing it over to Sloan. "Here. Pop one of these bad boys. You ever use one before?"

She glanced down, recognizing the apparatus in her hand. A stealth boy had been what allowed her to escape from a gaggle of raiders when she'd inconveniently run out of ammunition during the initial trip to Diamond City. That, combined with the drainage ditch she'd hid in while the idiots clamored past thinking a runaway radstag was her, had saved her hide.

"Yeah," she whispered back.

Deacon nodded and reached for the stealth boy attached to his belt, flicking the switch and activating the invisibility field. His image flickered before her eyes and then disappeared, leaving only a faintly shimmering shape that she wouldn't have even noticed if she hadn't known he was there.

Sloan followed suit, and the two of them immediately began to sneak across the crumbling expanse of the parking garage. Stealth boys unfortunately did not last long, and every second was precious. The soft red light from the suicider's nuke gave the scene a rather ominous glow, and Sloan fought to keep her eyes on the path ahead. The area completely reeked with the smell of blood and decay, and in between the grunting sounds of the mutants speaking, she could hear a steady _'drip, drip, drip'_ nearby that she knew was _not_ water.

_Twenty seconds left._

They were about halfway there. At the end of the room was an elevator and a door. Of the two, the door looked to be the more viable option, though it was a bit further away. Sloan felt something squish beneath her boot and thanked her lucky stars for having built up a major tolerance to gore before ever having set foot in the Commonwealth. Now _that_ was something she hadn't thought to ever be grateful for.

_Ten seconds left._

Something snapped loudly under Sloan's foot just then and she froze momentarily. When she glanced down, she immediately wished she hadn't. Swiftly she stepped away from the brittle human femur laying in her path, hoping that little blunder hadn't cost her cover.

Alas, the super mutant nearest to them stopped, turning toward the direction the sound had come from. "Hey! I hear something!"

_Four seconds left._

Fuck, it was the suicider. The blinking red light drew nearer as he thumped closer to investigate, and Sloan did the only thing that she could think of; she cupped her hand around her mouth, threw her voice toward the opposite corner and growled out her best impersonation of a super mutant:

"YOU STUPID, BROTHER. STUPID LIKE _HUMAN!_ "

Sloan saw Deacon reappear nearby and knew that her own shield was about to expire as well. He had a hand clapped over his mouth, watching in amusement from behind a broken pillar.

The other mutant's reaction was immediate. His head practically snapped to the side as he shouted to his companion, "WHAT?!"

Meanwhile the 'innocent' mutant was looking around for the mysterious voice. "HUH?"

"YOU SAID _STUPID. STUPID LIKE HUMAN!_ "

His friend did not take kindly to the accusation. "YOU BIG IDIOT! NO SAID THAT!"

While the mutant was distracted, Sloan took her opportunity and quickly caught up to her partner. Deacon's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter as they both inched along the wall toward the door, now completely forgotten by the quarreling green abominations.

"NOT IDIOT!" The first mutant angrily swung his sledgehammer into the concrete wall, and the foundation shook. "YOU STUPID ONE, _STUPID._ STUPID AND WEAK!"

The second mutant responded just as furiously, reaching for a long, thick wooden board entwined with barbed wire. "RAAGH! SHOW YOU WHO WEAK!"

As the two super mutants charged at each other with their weapons raised, roaring in equal rage, they failed to notice the door on the far side of the parking garage when it creaked open just enough for two crouching figures to swiftly sneak inside.

Once the entryway had been securely sealed behind them, Deacon's sniggering became audible. "Nice diversion, Charms. Had no idea you were fluent in Dumbass-ese."

Sloan's lips twisted into a smirk as she said, "Little something I picked up in college. I might actually have forfeited a couple of brain cells for having done that, but hey. Sacrifices, right?"

"Appreciate you taking one for the team." He chuckled and clapped her on the shoulder, standing up straight and taking a moment to stretch his limbs. "Well then, let's get this Easter egg hunt underway, shall we?"

 

* * *

 

When they emerged on the broken rooftop some hours later, both their travel packs heavy with various items on Tom's list, the sky had begun to darken around the setting sun. Sloan had been skeptical about exiting from the roof, but Deacon had assured her that he knew of a way down from there, and sure enough, he was pointing out a jerry-rigged elevator toward the left end as soon as the door had shut behind them.

"See? Have I ever led you wrong? Wait, don't answer that."

Sloan playfully smacked the brim of the hat he wore as she walked past. She made her way to the edge of the building, getting as close as she dared in order to look down below. The partially-obliterated structures surrounding the area were now bathed in the glow of sunset, which gave the scene a somewhat contradictory impression. Her eyes roamed the taller buildings, war-worn and crumbling, missing entire sections of walls. Skeletons of what they once were.

She felt herself sigh. "Jesus, I don't even recognize this place anymore," she said softly as Deacon came up behind her.

"Boston _is_ pretty unrecognizable wearing its post-apocalypse party hat," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket for a half-empty pack of cigarettes. He smacked the bottom of the box until one of them fell into his hand.

"Hell, I can't even tell which direction we came from. It all looks the fucking same up here." She shrugged in a somewhat helpless manner, gazing around at the decrepit buildings below.

"Yeah. War's a real bitch, isn't it? These days, it's hard to imagine this place looking like anything else. Most people grow up never knowing what the world looked like in its heyday."

"Now that's all kinds of sad, Deacon." Sloan sighed, letting her eyes wander across the endless expanse of urban wasteland. It still felt so surreal to be standing there. She'd just been at home with her family a little over a month ago. Well, okay, _two hundred years_ ago, but time flies when you're frozen. Her last moments in that bright, lively world had happened so fast; the news report, the frenzied cries as the neighborhood went into a collective panic, the blur of grass and trees as she'd dashed for the vault alongside Nate… "I know it sounds dumb, but sometimes I feel like I'm just going to wake up on a park bench with all my stuff stolen and find out that this was all just a bizarre, Absinthe-induced fever dream."

He exhaled a laugh and took a long drag on his cigarette. "Well if that ever happens, make sure you give me a shake too."

Her lips turned slightly upward as she glanced over at him. "Sometimes I really wish you could have seen it," she said. "At least then you'd probably get more of my jokes."

She had to admit, though, of all the people she'd met in the Commonwealth so far, Deacon was the one person who seemed to have the best insight regarding the culture she'd left behind. He often had a rather anachronistic way of speaking and occasionally made references to things that she was pretty sure he shouldn't know about. Sloan had to wonder where he'd actually picked up on all of that. She'd asked him once, and he'd informed her that it was because he had once traveled back in time to stop a clever adversary from discovering the Railroad's biggest secret, and had accidentally gone too far back into the past. She didn't know what else she'd expected, really.

He gave her a subtle grin. "Maybe I _do_ get them and they just aren't that funny."

Sloan rolled her eyes. "I'll have you know I'm hilarious. Just…not so much lately. I mean, when some dickhole from some elitist-ass organization snatches your kid, it doesn't really make for good comedy mojo."

"No…guess not," he replied, his tone becoming somber. He stared at her a moment through dark shades, the lenses painted with the colors of the sunset around them. "Listen, we're _going_ to find your kid. That's a promise you can believe in."

And he sounded so sincere that Sloan actually did. She nodded slowly, realizing she'd gone and depressed herself by bringing up these dismal topics. No use in dwelling on the unknown and the uncontrollable. She couldn't change the past. Nobody and nothing could. All she could do was focus on moving forward and carving out a life in the here and now.

She shrugged, gesturing toward the contraption beside them. "Well, let's see if that elevator even works. Hell, I've always wanted to plummet to my death from the top of a hospital."


	6. Honesty And Prudence Are Overrated

**DECEMBER 5, 2287**

 

“You sure you don’t want to change your codename to ‘Crazypants’ instead? Jesus,” Deacon swore as he pushed himself up from the floor and climbed over still-smoking debris toward the wall that Sloan had fallen against.

She managed a laugh through her teeth, kicking away the Gunner’s body. Her hand clamped around the large gash on her thigh, feeling a sticky warmth seeping freely between her fingers. “That one was already taken, and I didn’t like the sound of ‘Crazypants2077.’”

Faking a laugh of his own, Deacon dropped to one knee in front of her, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head so he could take stock of her injuries. A few scrapes on her face and arms, nothing too severe, more dirt than blood really. But the crimson stain soaking through her jeans around her palm was worrisome. He withdrew a Stimpak from his travel pack, plunging it into the muscle just above her wound. It would help stop the bleeding, but she likely had some shrapnel imbedded into her flesh. Oh boy. Carrington was going to be overjoyed.

“How about ‘Pin Cushion’ then?” He reached into his pack again for a spare shirt, ripping a long strip from it to use as a makeshift bandage. “It’s catchy and kind of cute, plus it’s a nice little shout-out to that piece of metal stuck in your leg.”

She rolled her eyes, moving her hand away so he could wrap the strip of cloth around her thigh. “I think what you meant to say was ‘thanks for saving my ass.’ This d-bag here would’ve had you,” Sloan said as she toed the dead Gunner at her feet. She winced as Deacon tied a tight knot over her wound.

“So you shot the grenade in his hand and almost blew _yourself_ up instead? What am I supposed to be thanking you for, again?” There must have been a bit too much concern in his voice for his own comfort, because the next thing out of his mouth was spoken in his usual flippant manner. “Remember what I said about heroics and not trying to pull any of them, Charmer.”

She chuckled, her eyes flickering up to search his just before he obscured them once more. “That’s going to be a tough habit to kick, you know.”

Truthfully they hadn’t expected to encounter so many Gunners. They had managed to sneak through most of the building undetected and dance past several mines and tripwires. It was the damned dog that did them in; sniffed them out and raised alarm, causing the fight to break out and the bullets to fly. Deacon had been covering Sloan, leaning forward to take out a Gunner who’d gotten too close to her, when she had noticed another one spot him and reach for an explosive. She’d acted on pure reflex, staring down the scope of her pistol and squeezing the trigger.

In retrospect, she supposed that could have gone better.

Deacon grasped her hand and hauled her to her feet. “We gotta get you back to HQ. Think you can walk?”

Sloan nodded, taking a moment to steady herself on his arm. “I’m okay.”

But as they began to make their way out of the dusty building, her limp became increasingly apparent and after a few minutes Deacon was gripping her wrist and ducking under her arm to help take the weight off her bad leg.

“At least we got what we came for,” she offered, grateful for the assistance although she wouldn’t have admitted that aloud. Her own travel pack was heavy with all the salvaged supplies they’d gathered for the teleportation device. After a week of searching for materials, they had almost everything that was required. Only a couple of essential components remained to be scavenged.

It was good progress, she supposed. She was just fortunate that Tinker knew what he was doing, or _claimed_ to know, at least. Sloan was also grateful to have Deacon along during these often risky ventures. Despite his deceptive nature, she found that she could trust him when it counted; he knew his way around the Commonwealth and always had her back in a pinch. He’d never lied to her about anything that could have gotten her hurt or killed. If anything, Deacon’s dishonesty seemed to be centered around protecting the Railroad first and himself second. She’d never met anyone more guarded. Anything personal he ever told her had to be taken with a grain of salt—even things that might normally be plausible. He was a damned good actor, Sloan had to give him that. He could probably spin any number of stories about himself and she’d never really know whether or not he was telling the truth.

It had been just the other day that he announced he was letting her in on the ‘Big Secret,’ as he’d called it; confessing to her that the Railroad was actually _his_ show and that Desdemona was merely a figurehead doling out orders because he told her to. This, of course, had been met with the usual skepticism that Sloan was accustomed to awarding him anytime he deigned to divulge information of that nature. In the end, he’d admitted that yes, that had been another lie, but the point behind it had been to show her that any organization she came across would attempt to deceive her in a similar fashion. _‘Ignore the verbiage and look at what they’re doing,’_ he had advised. _‘What they’re asking_ you _to do. What sort of world they’d have you build and how they’re going to pay for it.’_

When she thought about it, Sloan realized that she’d been taking that approach with _him_ as well; paying more attention to his actions and less to his words. There were plenty of reasons that people lied so insistently and so habitually about themselves, and she had her own theories when it came to Deacon. The games, the stories, the regular facial reconstruction…it didn’t take a genius to figure out that there was more to this than simply ‘keeping the enemies guessing.’ But whatever his reason, it was obviously very personal and so long as it didn’t negatively impact their partnership, Sloan was just fine with leaving it at that.

“So,” Deacon began, breaking the silence as he helped her hobble down the darkened streets. They tended to work after dusk, as it helped to maintain their covert approach. “I guess with you all laid up, I’m going to be hitting the next dead drop solo.”

Sloan gave a slight snort. “I don’t think so. Just a few stitches and I’ll be fine.” She shifted the pack over her shoulder. “You really think I’m going to let you have all the fun to yourself?”

“’Fun,’ she says. Hey, how about ‘Prudence?’ Because it’s hilariously ironic.”

“Only if we can change _your_ name to ‘Baldy.’”

“Whoa, hey, I’m not bald—I shave my head. Big difference. Besides, it took me ages to come up with a name as cool as ‘Deacon.’ Why mess with perfection?” He nodded toward a narrow alley that they could take as a short-cut before continuing, “But seriously, you know, just because Dez and Carrington like to toss out orders like beads at a Mardi Gras parade doesn’t mean you have to dive right into ops without coming up for air in between. And that’s on _top_ of working on all this teleporter stuff.”

Sloan idly wondered where the hell he’d picked up that analogy. She tilted her head slightly toward him and challenged him with, “What, are you trying to tell me that _you_ need a break?”

Deacon held his tongue, thinking carefully about his answer before he said, “So what if I am? We’ve been running ourselves ragged all week, it’ll be good to kick back for a bit. How about it? We take a day to recharge, hit up Goodneighbor for a drink or two. I could show you a few of the lesser-known ‘gems’ the Commonwealth has to offer. It’ll be an exercise in the whole ‘bonding’ thing.”

One of Sloan’s eyebrows shot up and she craned her neck to look at him as they ambled through the shadows. “Are you asking me on a date?”

He shrugged his free shoulder. “Alright, you caught me. Could be fun. So what do you say, huh?”

She was quiet for a moment, and then smirk crawled across her face. “I say nice try, but I know what you’re _really_ up to.” Her expression faded as a sigh escaped her wind-chapped lips. “Look, you don’t have to worry about me being a liability. I know my own limits, and I’d never let my condition compromise an op. If I weren’t up for it, I wouldn’t go.”

“If you say so, boss.” Deacon gave up on that little scheme with a slight shake of his head. “Man, I’ve never seen anyone stay as busy as you. Don’t get me wrong, I think we’re doing a lot of good out here and I’m not complaining…but if you keep busting your ass like you’ve got something to prove then you’re gonna get burnt out _really_ quick.” And he wasn’t about to say so, but it was almost as if she were trying _very_ hard to distract herself from thinking about what could happen once she got into the Institute. Not that it was any of his business, but he’d seen what the reckless pursuit of distraction could do to a person. Hell, he’d _lived_ it. Probably still was, if he were being perfectly honest with himself…something he didn’t tend to make a habit of.

“It’s okay. I like having things to do,” she was saying. “It helps me to adjust out here. Besides, it feels good to be out in the field again. Even if it’s a lot different than what I’m used to.”

“Yeah, you can’t exactly profile a super mutant…” He paused and raised his eyebrows. “Or can you? Ooh. Maybe something like, ‘The offenders in question are like giant toddlers on steroids, suffering from a perpetual state of rage and pants-on-head syndrome.’”

Sloan let out a short laugh, an action that made her bruised ribs ache, before adding to his facetious analysis, “These big piss-babies appear to be motivated by an unfounded superiority complex and the uncontrollable urge to throw super-sized tantrums. Oh, and let’s not even get into victimology—shit, my head is _spinning_ just thinking about it.”

Deacon chuckled. “See, we would’ve made a damn good team back in the day! Too bad I left my badge in my other pants. You had one of those, right?”

“I had one…yeah. It’s actually with my personal affects, um…still in Vault 111.” She fell silent. The words _‘Maybe someday I’ll go back and get it so you can see,’_ were on the tip of her tongue, but died on her lips. Who was she kidding? She didn’t know if she could ever go back there, not even for the last small reminders of the life she’d left behind. Vault 111 was nothing but a tomb now. So instead, she changed the topic and led with, “You know what I _really_ miss about pre-war life?”

“Going two days without a life-threatening jaunt through downtown Boston?” Deacon supplied as he guided her toward the back entrance that would bring them down into the catacombs.

She snorted. “Aww, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Trouble isn’t necessarily _bad_. Although I will say that before I met you, I used to go whole _days_ without massacring a bunch of things.”

Sloan allowed her lips to twist slightly upward. “Now I just feel sorry for you. Aren’t you glad you met me?”

“Only on the days when I can get the blood out of my clothes,” he teased, slowing their pace so that she could hobble down the stairs. “Anyway, what do you miss, Charm-charms?”

“The music,” she readily replied. “You guys are really missing out; we had _amazing_ music. And _so_ much variety. Everything from rock and roll to electropunk to like…emo death metal grandma Christian synthcore, whatever. You name the genre, we had it. But it seems like most of it must have been lost in the war because ever since I got here, I’ve only heard the same ten songs on the radio over and over and _over._ ” She let out a groan as she continued, “People here must have a next-level tolerance for monotony because if I have to listen to ‘Anything Goes’ one more goddamn time I just might punt my pip-boy into a nest of molerats.”

“Aw, what’d the molerats ever do to deserve that?” He laughed, sliding an arm around her waist when she stumbled over the pipe as they made their way through the tunnel. “Okay, we _did_ get saddled with some pretty god-awful tunes, I’ll give you that. My personal least favorite? The one that goes, _‘the roads are the dustiest, the winds are the gustiest, the gates are the rust_ —”

Sloan cut him off with a dramatic, mocking sigh. “Ugh, no, now I’ll never get that one out of my head. Why would you hurt me like this, Deacon?” She made a face. “But seriously—I know, what the fuck is up with that song? _‘The bees are the stingy-est? The birds are the wingy-est?’_ Those aren’t even words! Go home, Bob Crosby, you’re drunk. I do like this one, though, even though it’s kind of douche-y it’s still pretty catchy, the one that’s like, _‘I’m a wanderer! Yeah I’m a wanderer. I roam around, around, around, around, around!’_ ”

Deacon grinned as they came to pause by the door. “Ha! Not bad, Charms. Hey, maybe we should form our own traveling band; ‘Saviors of the Commonwealth.’ I’ve always wanted groupies.” He let go of her wrist to reach for the handle and pull the door open. “Anyway, guess it’s time to let Carrington give the ‘I told you so’ speech he’s been saving for a rainy day. We can spice up the story if you want, but either way he’s going to bitch. Some advice—it’s best to just nod along and wait for his head to stop spinning.”

Sloan grimaced slightly. “Right…” She recalled the Railroad doctor strongly recommending that she take a day to rest up, considering she was still scratched and bruised from the last scrape she and Deacon had gotten into the other day. She hardly slept these days, burning the candle at both ends and Carrington had noticed.

Still, she couldn’t stop. Continually thrusting herself into the midst of the action was the only escape she had from the disconcerting reality that her life had become. ‘ _Soon,’_ she thought. ‘ _Soon, I’ll have Shaun back and both of us can start living our lives again.’_

One day, Sloan would look back on this time and realize that her own desperation had driven her toward that sort of blind hope she’d seen in the eyes of so many victim’s families before her, when all her experiences until that point should have prepared her for the worst. She should have seen it coming, should have known this would never end well.

The only thing more difficult to watch than outright loss was futile optimism.


	7. Breathe In, Breathe Out

**DECEMBER 8, 2287**

 

"Rad storm incoming!" Deacon called out over the increasing gusts of wind, climbing down from his vantage point on the partially ruined office building.

Sloan glanced up to see the sky toward the west beginning to take on a green tint. Thunder rolled ominously in the distance. It wasn't the first radiation storm she had run from since she'd ventured out of Vault 111 a couple months ago, but these hazardous reminders of her lone adventure into the Glowing Sea never failed to give her the ultimate creeps.

The two of them had set out about two hours ago toward Sanctuary Hills, the location Sloan had chosen as the site for the teleportation device. There were only a few more parts left to gather up, which she'd assured Tinker that they would be able to acquire during the trip over. He'd agreed to meet up with her and Deacon the next morning to begin the construction work. In the meantime, she was doing her best to try not to think about what might happen over the course of the next few days, including the very real possibility of reuniting with her boy. Those thoughts were dangerously distracting, particularly when one was attempting to navigate the perils of the Commonwealth.

"We should find somewhere to take cover while it passes," Deacon continued as he jogged back over to her. "Well, unless you're cool with becoming my own personal night light."

"I thought disguises were _your_ thing," she said, quickly stuffing a broken lamp into her travel pack and slinging it over her shoulder, mentally checking copper off of Tinker's last-minute shopping list.

"Aww. It's almost _cute_ that you think I couldn't top a walking glow stick."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm surprised you even know what that is."

"I happen to find all those old world relics _fascinating._ Must be why I like traveling with you so much," he teased back.

"You're hilarious."

In truth, she _had_ noticed his particular interest in pre-war technology. He was always more than happy to discuss things like cameras and phones, televisions and old films. At first she hadn't been terribly keen on talking about such things as if they were ancient artifacts, particularly when she was still trying to accept that their warranties had expired over _two hundred years ago._ But Deacon's enthusiasm was nothing if not encouraging and, in time, contagious. Three days ago, she'd opened up to him about how she missed the music from her time and ever since then it had been a little easier to broach the subject. They had gone to the dead drop location the next day and Sloan had attempted to teach him a couple of the silly songs that she used to listen to during her college days. He hadn't understood half of the references, but humored her with a few laughs anyway and she could tell he appreciated the effort.

It made Sloan wish that she had managed to hold onto some of her belongings so that she could have shown him some of the things he'd never had a chance to see. All the music, movies, and video games she had collected back in the day…he really would have enjoyed those. Sadly, everything of value that she owned was either destroyed in the war or looted long ago.

Thunder rumbled closer and she fought back a shiver, picking up her pace to match his. "See anywhere we can hide? Seems like a lot of these buildings don't have roofs," she said, her eyes darting about the grimy urban area they'd been making their way through. She was beginning to think maybe it would be easier to just endure the radiation and flush their systems afterward.

" _That_ might work," Deacon said just then, and she followed his gaze toward a blue cylindrical structure just outside a crumbling brick building ahead of them.

Sloan quirked an eyebrow. "A Pulowski preservation shelter?" She remembered the hype surrounding those things shortly before the war. So many people had been desperate to secure a spot within one of the underground vaults that a company called Pulowski Preservation Services had jumped onto the bandwagon and sought to place the coin-operated fallout shelters on as many street corners as possible. Sloan had heard little else about them, although her neighbor had stolen one of the damned things and somehow wrangled it down into his basement. Curiously, he wasn't able to get the prerecorded message to stop repeating itself, even when the machine was unplugged. She and Nate had taken to speaking to him in that same voice whenever they saw him, much to his annoyance. _Good times._

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Sloan followed Deacon as he hurried over to the shelter, past an overturned bus and several rusted cars. He activated the door and it slid open, the voiceover chirping in an entirely too cheery voice, _"Pulowski: Nu-kyoo-lar protection on a budget!"_

"Oh, shut up," Sloan muttered back.

"Might be a tight squeeze in here. Hope you remembered deodorant," Deacon remarked as he ushered her inside the tiny shelter.

The preservation shelters were really only suitable for one adult, but the two of them happened to be small enough to squeeze into it together. Sloan turned so that her back was pressed against the cold metal wall, standing opposite Deacon as he did the same. The door slid shut in front of them, snuffing out all the light and leaving them in darkness as the thunder rumbled louder outside.

"Looks like we narrowly avoided the light show," Deacon remarked, his voice close to her ear.

Sloan hummed in response as rain began pelting down upon the metal shelter. Her Geiger counter remained quiet, which honestly came as a surprise. She hadn't really been certain of how well these shelters actually worked; given the corpses she'd found in a couple of them during her travels, she had guessed the answer would have been 'not very.'

As the storm swept through in full force, the rain drummed down harder and the wind whistled sharply around them. Sloan shivered just then, breathing deeply through her nose and swallowing down a sudden feeling of intense unease. Deacon had continued to fill the silence with commentary, and she was trying to follow along but there was a nagging in the back of her mind that wouldn't go away.

Her brow furrowed as she concentrated on formulating a reply, but found that she actually had no idea what he'd just said.

"Um…" Sloan wet her lips, trying not to think about the cold metal against her back. "What?"

Deacon faked an offended noise. "You weren't even paying attention? I was just telling you my life story, you know, spilling all the untold truths from my tender adolescent years. Like that time I was a Brotherhood Squire and Maxson didn't invite me to his birthday party. I heard the cake was delicious..." When that failed to get a reaction out of her, he gently nudged her with his shoulder. "Come on, I'm not _that_ boring. Right?"

"No, no…keep talking, I could use a power nap," Sloan bantered back, but her voice sounded oddly feeble and uncertain.

But whatever he said next was drowned out by the rippling crack of thunder directly overhead. Sloan swallowed, feeling her throat go dry as dread washed over her. The wall was cold, so cold…

A chill nearly shook her entire body all of a sudden, and then she froze in her spot as it hit her hard; vivid flashes of memories burned through her mind in an instant.

Unfathomable cold.

Ice frosting over glass.

The wail of an infant.

The echo of a single shot.

_Futility. Helplessness._

Her breath quickened and her heart began to race. She could feel the air becoming staler, icier, like a million needles in her skin. She couldn't breathe. _She couldn't breathe._ Terror welled up inside, gripping her tight in its frigid fist.

It was happening. It was happening _again._

She could hear nothing but ringing in her ears as the panic seized her, suffocating her. Who would she lose now? Who else would they take from her?

Something warm grasped her arm just then. Something shook her slightly.

It took Sloan's mind a moment to register the voice calling to her. It sounded garbled, as if she were hearing it underwater, though she felt the warm puffs of air against her cheek and knew that couldn't be right.

"Are you hearing me? Charms?"

She swallowed again, trying to draw a breath that the shivers had stolen. "It…it's cold," she finally said in a small voice, her eyes wide in the darkness.

"What? It's not—hey, what's wrong? Charmer," there was a distinct hint of concern in his tone, "talk to me."

"I can't…feel anything," she whispered back, lips numb, her fingers balling into fists as they trembled at her sides.

She felt his hands on both of her shoulders just then, and he must have moved closer because his voice was directly beside her ear as he said, "Hey, listen to me. You're okay. You're safe—uh, well, environmental hazards and homicidal wasteland boogeymen notwithstanding. But look, it's alright. You're with me, remember? Your buddy Deacon. We're just waiting out a radiation storm. 'Nu-kyoo-lar protection,' right?"

Sloan swallowed. Her throat was still dry as a bone but she managed a nod that he didn't see, her chin brushing lightly against his shoulder. "Right…"

"Yeah," he said, and his grip on her tightened almost indiscernibly, "so we're all good here. False alarm. Abort panic mode, and all that." When she didn't immediately reply, he kept talking. "You know where you are, right? Try to focus on that. Come on, talk to me, Charmer. Do you remember?"

Sloan closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his steady breathing as her brain formulated a reply. In and out, in and out…it helped her to regain control of her own lungs, gradually allowing her to think more clearly.

"I'm…in the Commonwealth. In the year 2287," she finally answered. She let out a long breath, feeling the haze leaving her mind. His hands on her shoulders felt warm, chasing the cold from her bones and helping to ground her. "With my pal, Deacon…in a Pulowski preservation shelter that's too fucking small for two people."

He let out a small chuckle, the barest hint of relief in his voice as he said, "No argument there, my friend."

It was about ten minutes before the storm outside began to subside. Deacon kept Sloan talking, asking all sorts of seemingly irrelevant questions about various subjects. She answered them with little enthusiasm at first, but before long she was replying more readily and even making a few light jokes. At one point he tried to sing a portion of a song she'd taught him the other day, though he forgot an entire verse and had to make it up on the fly. The result prompted genuine laughter from her.

When it was finally safe to venture back outside, Sloan was feeling much more like herself again, though she subconsciously stuck a little closer to him as they exited the shelter and continued on toward their destination.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we've reached something of a turning point…however small it may be. Unfortunately these two are going to be progressing at a near-glacial pace, considering, well, Deacon (which is why I am thinking that a romance in-game, if we ever got one, would be sadly unrealistic. The dude has mile-high walls, man. Bethesda ain't got time for that). 
> 
> Fun stuff ahead, though, I am looking forward to posting it! Anyway, thanks again for reading! I appreciate all the feedback from you guys, be it kudos or bookmarks or comments! Helps keep me inspired, knowing that other people find this stuff entertaining, heh.


	8. Home Is Where The Hurt Is

**DECEMBER 8, 2287**

 

"What the—you just said you had to take a piss." Sloan's nose crinkled as Deacon stepped out from behind a broken wall, smoothing out the faded button-down shirt that he'd traded his leather jacket for.

"Yeah," he replied as he reached up to straighten the black wig he'd donned, "but as long as we're hitting up a settlement, I thought I'd go for the 'please don't hurt me, a I'm harmless civvie' look."

"Or the 'please take my all stuff and shoot me in the head, I'm a harmless civvie' look, depending on who you encounter."

"In that case, they're _really_ going to be surprised by the plot twist."

Sloan snorted in slight amusement as he rejoined her to continue onward toward their destination. She had grown accustomed to his preference for blending into whichever area they were in on any given day, although she had to wonder just _how many_ disguises he could possibly fit into that travel pack. Apparently very many.

The trek to Sanctuary had taken nearly half a day, and she was missing pre-war transportation more than ever. She used to be able to drive to Boston from her home in just under an hour—and that was without having to worry about irradiated wildlife sneaking up on her.

"We're almost there," she said, catching sight of the familiar crimson mascot of the Red Rocket truck stop. The structure was softly illuminated by the pink and orange glow of the setting sun, painting a picturesque scene that felt a bit out of place amid the otherwise unpleasant environment.

"Oh, thank god. I think I'm starting to blister," came Deacon's glib reply.

"That's what you get for wearing those boots all day."

"Hey, what's fashion without sacrificing a few comforts here and there?"

Sloan shook her head, scanning the truck stop for enemies as they approached it. "Just warn me before you take those off tonight. I want to be in another room first. Or on the other side of the settlement."

He chuckled. "I'll be sure to slip one of them under your pillow while you're asleep."

She looked back long enough to make a face at him before picking up the pace a bit. It wasn't as if she were all that anxious to return to the place she had once called home; on the contrary, she was absolutely dreading it. She'd been treating Sanctuary Hills as if it were ground zero since the moment she'd left for Diamond City nearly two months ago. But when it had come time to think about where to build what Tinker had promised would be a hulking beast of a machine, deciding on the settlement now known simply as 'Sanctuary' made perfect sense. This way, Sloan figured if anything went awry during her infiltration then at least the Institute couldn't use the location to trace her activity back to the Railroad or their headquarters.

Sanctuary Hills had been Shaun's first home, and the site nearest Vault 111 from which he'd been kidnapped. It would be seen as a very personal, sentimental choice…even if that first step onto the creaky wooden bridge made her skin crawl and her stomach twist into knots.

Deacon followed close behind, remarking that a place called 'Sanctuary' ought to at least pretend to live up to its name by boasting a couple of protective walls, or a fence at the very least. She wasn't sure how much he knew of this particular settlement; surely more than he was letting on, as usual, although she hadn't yet told him of its significance to her. She had only stated that it was a viable, private location ideal for building a large piece of machinery and that the settlers there owed her a favor. He hadn't pushed any further.

She recognized Preston's dusty brown cowboy hat up ahead, but waited until he'd seen them approaching before raising a hand in greeting. He gave a nod, lowering his laser musket and walking toward her.

"Good to see you again, Sloan," he said once the three were close enough for conversation. "We were all wondering if you ever made it back from Fort Hagan."

She ducked her head, a sheepish look distorting her features momentarily. "Oh, I—sorry about that. I meant to catch up with you sooner, but we ended up getting some good leads and…well, it's a long story."

Preston nodded. "It's okay, you don't have to explain. I just hope you found what you were looking for." His eyes darted from Sloan to Deacon, and then he gestured for the two of them to follow him. "Anyway, I'm glad I ran into you. There's…well, a favor that I need to ask you. But we can talk about that a little later. It's getting dark. If you need a place to stay for the night, we've got plenty of room."

"That would be great, actually," she said as they began to walk further into the war-worn settlement. "My friend… _Diego_ here isn't used to traveling long distances and he's pretty wiped out."

Deacon shot her a sidelong smirk. "Yeah, man. My feet are just _killing_ me. I normally don't stray too far outside of Diamond City, but after my shop went under I figured it was time to look for work elsewhere."

"Sorry to hear that," Preston replied from up ahead. "Unfortunately you won't find much of that out here; at least not the paying kind. I do know a few places I can point you to, though."

"That'd be much appreciated. I'll take whatever I can get—especially with rent coming up. If I have to ask for another extension, I might be out on my ass next month."

Sloan listened absently as the two of them continued to converse. Preston asked what sort of shop Deacon used to run, prompting Deacon to launch into a detailed description of his squirrel kabob business that eventually went belly-up due to a sudden squirrel famine in Diamond City. She had to admit, watching Deacon work an angle and get on someone's good side was certainly something else. He was quick-witted and inventive, and when he really wanted to sell a lie, he damn well sold it.

Looking around, she noted that the most notably dilapidated homes had been stripped for scrap, leaving only the concrete foundations; some of which had been used as the grounds for constructing shoddy wooden shacks to house settlers. As they ventured further into the settlement, Sloan began to notice people going about their business; cooking food or gathering resources. Some were sitting around a campfire near the street, talking quietly amongst each other. There were a lot more of them than she'd remembered the last time she had been in the area, and she supposed that word had gotten out about the place.

That was good. Things were going well for him, it seemed. Preston hadn't seemed very confident in his leadership skills to begin with and had insisted that Sloan become the new Minutemen General instead, though she had respectably declined. Finding Shaun was her one and only priority, and she couldn't focus on helping to rebuild an army while her son was missing. It had taken some doing, but she'd eventually managed to convince Preston that _he_ was the one person best suited to lead the Minutemen; after all, he was already familiar with them and knew what kind of army they _should_ be. He'd seen and lived through the mistakes of the past and was best equipped to prevent those same blunders from happening in the future.

Sloan felt a pang of guilt as she recalled assuring Preston that she would do what she could to support him. She hadn't done much to live up to that promise thus far. Hell, he hadn't even known she was alive until a few minutes ago.

"Great. More drifters looking for handouts?" A scowling brunette paused as the group approached, taking note of Sloan and the stranger she'd brought along with her. Her tone was all venom as she said, "Listen, you'd better keep your mouth shut about this place!"

Sloan bristled. "In that case I'll have to go back and let those raiders know they're officially uninvited to the party. The Deathclaw will be _especially_ crushed." She really had tried to be nice initially, despite being in the midst of some heavy emotional trauma herself, but every interaction with Marcy Long had her battling the urge to leave an imprint of her knuckles on the other woman's forehead. After having helped the group in Concord and securing Sanctuary for them, Sloan thought a little decency wouldn't have been too much to ask for, but evidently it was.

"You—ugh." Marcy's face twisted into a look of disgust, clearly not appreciative of Sloan's sarcasm. "I'm not in the mood for your jokes. We can't afford to let every _stray_ in that wanders by," she sneered back.

"Marcy, please…" Preston interjected.

Marcy scoffed and her scowl, if possible, deepened. "I hope you know what you're doing, Preston." Shaking her head, she turned her back and grudgingly returned to the tato plants she'd been tending, muttering under her breath about how awful it was in the wasteland as it was without having to worry about which sort of riff-raff would wander in next.

She wasn't wrong, really. It was too dangerous to be too trusting or optimistic out here. Still, the woman was determined to be insufferable; stomping around Sanctuary as if she were the only person who'd ever lost anyone while her husband stumbled along at her heels, apologizing and making excuses for her. If Nate were alive…

"I'm sorry," Preston said, breaking her from her thoughts. "She's just…she's been doing better, honest. Anyway, don't worry about her. Just make yourselves at home here."

"Thanks, pal. Don't mind if I do," Deacon drawled.

Sloan reached out to touch Preston's arm just then. "You know, if now is a good time, I actually have something I need to talk to you about."

Preston nodded. "Alright. Let's take a walk, then. I was in the middle of patrolling the perimeter, if you wouldn't mind tagging along. Never hurts to have a second pair of eyes."

"Yeah, no problem." She exchanged brief glances with Deacon, who took the hint and stayed behind while she and Preston continued onward toward the outskirts of the settlement.

Sloan withdrew her pistol, holding it at her side on the off-chance that they did encounter an enemy during the patrol; surely nothing more dangerous than a radroach or a bloatfly, but she supposed the occasional raider probably happened by. They walked along in companionable silence, Preston's jacket swishing through the long grass, small sticks crunching beneath their boots. He made no move to talk first, clearly waiting patiently for her to reveal what was on her mind.

She held off until the din of the settlers had faded and she was sure that they were out of earshot, and then she cleared her throat softly to indicate her intent to speak. "Do you remember when we first met?"

He glanced over at her. "Of course I do. How could I forget? You helped us out of that jam in Concord. It was nothing short of a miracle, really."

Sloan pursed her lips, casting her eyes downward. "Right, that. But I'm talking about when you invited me to come back here with the rest of the group, and I…I said I couldn't. Left it at that and walked away."

"Yeah, but you showed up again a couple days later…only to disappear again." Preston shook his head slightly, confusion knitting his brow together. "I don't understand, where are you going with this?"

"Well," she began, pretending to be scanning the line of dead trees up ahead, "the reason I didn't want to come back was… _is_ …because I have too many memories attached to this place."

"Wait...you used to live here? Why didn't you say so before?"

"Because…" Sloan paused. No matter how many times she revealed her bizarre circumstances to another person—and Preston would be the fourth—the thought always made her heart lurch and a weight settle in the pit of her stomach. "When I used to live here, there were flowers growing on those bushes right there. Lush, green grass on all the lawns. Birds nesting in the trees. Working cars parked in every driveway. I…I thought it would be crazy to tell you that, so I let you think I was just some random drifter."

"Whoa, hold up." Preston halted in his footsteps, staring back at her in surprise. His eyes searched hers for a moment and then he asked the question tentatively. "Are you trying to tell me that you're from _before_ the war?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, I am. That vault just up the hill…? I was frozen inside for the past two hundred-something years."

Preston let out a short laugh, more out of incredulity than anything else. "Seriously? Uh…wow. I mean, it's not unheard of to come across vault dwellers out here, but…damn. You know, some things about you are starting to make a _hell_ of a lot more sense all of a sudden. I definitely remember you having some…interesting questions that I thought were pretty strange for a drifter. I knew something was off, I just…didn't know what."

She chuckled. "Yeah, I guess I could have been a _little_ less conspicuous."

"Well, I can't say I blame you," he replied with a slight shrug. "It must've been a big shock, waking up to all of this." He was quiet for a minute, idly checking over his musket and processing what she'd just told him. She could see the gears turning in his head, and when they resumed walking he said, "So…that missing person you were looking for…?"

Sloan bit her lip, still reluctant to divulge more information than necessary. But if she were to ask Preston for this favor, then he deserved to know the truth. "My son," she admitted after several beats, her tone dropping to a near-whisper. "My baby was stolen from the vault…ripped from my husband's arms after they shot him. It was the Institute."

"Oh my god, I—I'm so sorry. That's…I mean, you hear about this kind of thing happening to people sometimes, but…" He trailed off, meeting her eyes with a look of utmost sincerity. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"That's…actually the reason I wanted to talk to you. The thing is, I've got a way into the Institute. It's…well, to make a long story short, it's going to require a machine. A teleportation device. It sounds crazy, I know, but I have a friend who can build it. It will work…all I need is a construction site with plenty of space and seclusion."

"Here?" Preston raised his eyebrows in question, sounding a bit wary. "Sanctuary?"

She'd been prepared to schmooze her way out of this corner, and the words came tumbling out of her mouth. "Look, I won't lie to you, there may be some risks involved. But they'll be minimal. Hopefully at worst, it'll just be a temporary inconvenience, and if not, then I can promise you I'll have enough manpower to deal with anything that so much as _glances_ in this direction. It shouldn't take long, I just—"

"It's okay." Preston held up a hand to stop her. "Say no more. If you need somewhere to build that thing, then I have no problem with Sanctuary being that place. After all you've done to help us out, it's the least I can do in return."

Sloan let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, feeling a swell of relief in her chest. She hadn't been expecting him to outright refuse, though she _had_ anticipated a much longer discussion. A small smile was on her lips as she said, "Thanks. Really means a lot to me."

"Don't mention it. I, uh…I really hope you get your boy back, Sloan."

"Yeah," she replied, breaking eye contact in favor of studying their surroundings. They were nearing the end of the patrol, approaching the orange glow of the campfire and several settlers once more. After a moment, she spoke up again. "So you were saying earlier that you had a favor to ask me?"

Preston waved a hand dismissively. "Oh…well, I did, but you obviously have a lot of stuff to deal with right now. I understand if it's not a good time."

She shook her head, awarding him a wry grin. "No, it's okay. I make a hobby out of filling whatever spare time I get with small acts of heroism and other distractions. It…it helps. So if you've got a job in mind, then sign me up."

As it turned out, Preston _did_ have a job for her. Bound to be the perfect way to kill time while waiting for Tinker to build the teleportation device, even. One of the settlements newly affiliated with the Minutemen had recently been attacked by a group of raiders, their crops ransacked and one of their own murdered. The civilian who had sent the request for help knew where the raiders were camped out and was certain they would be back again. Sloan assured Preston that she would head out in the morning and take care of the situation. Better to keep her mind and body occupied with activity than to spend her time restless and anxious while she wore a path around Sanctuary, hyperaware of how much she'd rather be _anywhere_ else.

Upon completing the patrol, the two of them parted ways. Preston mentioned wanting to check in on Mama Murphy and wake her before the entire crew sat down for dinner that evening, so Sloan left him to it. She parked herself on the broken doorstep of an abandoned home, recognizing it as that of the neighbor who had stolen the Pulowski Preservation shelter. She wondered if he'd ever actually used it. Maybe he had survived the explosions only to succumb to radiation poisoning afterward. Maybe he'd become a ghoul and was still kicking around somewhere. Or maybe he was just dead, like everyone else she'd ever known.

Heaving a sigh through her nose, chin propped up with a fist, she found herself absently watching the settlers as they scurried about; Jun trying to coax Marcy out of the tato patch for dinner, Sturges putting a few final touches on the wall he'd been working to repair, Mama Murphy settling down in her armchair with a bowl of hot stew. The faint smell of roasted meat wafted by on the breeze now and then, and Sloan's mind presented her with one particular memory of days long past—the lazy summer Saturdays when she hadn't felt like doing anything in town, when she and Nate would just kick back on the couch and watch television while the neighbors barbecued hamburgers and hot dogs in their backyards.

The sound of approaching footsteps jarred her from her thoughts and, relieved to have the distraction, Sloan glanced up to see her sunglasses-clad partner saunter over.

"So…tough break, huh? Seems like the property value on this place took a massive nosedive. If you're selling, I suggest finding a morally ambiguous realtor." Deacon dropped down beside her onto the crumbling concrete step, placing a cigarette between his lips.

She huffed through her nose. "You heard, huh? Stalker." Her tone was accusatory, though she didn't look upset.

He held up both hands. "Hey, I was just looking out for you. You know, making sure Marcy wasn't going to jump out of the bushes with a butcher knife."

Sloan couldn't help but laugh at that visual. "A valid concern, I guess."

He chuckled. "I gotta say, it's kind of hard to picture you living in one of these old, cookie-cutter homes. And without a single corpse decorating your lawn."

"We did have a rat problem, so don't discount the corpses," she remarked. "But yeah...the whole 'suburban soccer mom' lifestyle wasn't what I'd always pictured for myself. Then again, neither was…well, _this._ " She gestured toward the ruins around them.

"Life _does_ have a funny way of fucking you up in ways you never expect."

She hummed in agreement, and they were both silent for a spell while he smoked, content to people watch from the sidelines. After the settlers finished eating dinner, a few of them began cleaning up while the others returned to finish up some last-minute chores. One woman struck up a conversation with Marcy Long; she picked up two extra bowls of stew and gestured toward Sloan and Deacon, to which Marcy shook her head and made a loud comment that neither of them were able to make out.

"Alright, fess up," Deacon said from beside her. "What'd you do to the mean frowny lady?"

"Kicked her in the shin and stole her sweet role."

He feigned a gasp. "I knew it! You monster."

They were interrupted by Preston's figure looming over them just then. "Excuse me, Diego? One of our settlers just caught a few squirrels. I told her about your business and the famine in Diamond City, and she'd really love to try one of your famous squirrel kabobs. If you're up for it, anyway."

Sloan felt a wicked smirk twist her lips before she could catch herself. She elbowed Deacon's arm. "Hey, that's pretty _lucky_ isn't it, D?"

"Uh…" Deacon craned his neck to look at Preston, and then at a settler standing behind him who was excitedly holding up two dead squirrels by their tails. If he was at all thrown by the request, he recovered very quickly. "Sure, you got it! Prepare to be amazed," he boasted, hopping up from the step and dusting off the seat of his jeans.

Sloan's hand clapped over her mouth as she watched Deacon approach the settler, who grinned widely and thrust the squirrel corpses into his hands.

 _This_ was going to be good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, the squirrel kabobs came out burnt and tough. Deacon insisted it was because he didn't have his special marinade with him. Preston is now convinced that the reason his business went under is because his cooking is shit.
> 
> Also, petition for a "punch Marcy Long in the face" DLC, who's with me?


	9. Water My Plants When I'm Gone

**DECEMBER 8, 2287**

 

Tinker Tom had arrived shortly after Deacon's attempt to impress the settlers with his 'famous' squirrel kabobs had gone completely awry. The engineer had brought a small group of Railroad agents with him to assist in building the machine, much to the chagrin of Marcy Long. The perpetually disgruntled woman had aimed a vicious scowl in Sloan's direction when Tom and company strolled into Sanctuary hauling the teleporter parts, to which Sloan had responded by simply smiling sweetly and waving back at her.

They set to work on the machine shortly afterward, choosing an area beside the large oak tree toward the end of the neighborhood so that it wouldn't be directly in the way of the settlers. Sloan offered to help, but Tom shooed her away, insisting that she'd been busting her ass pulling double duty for the Railroad and had earned at least one night off.

However, without a task to keep herself occupied, Sloan felt useless and restless. She paced. She fidgeted. She tapped her feet and drummed her fingers. Finally Deacon took her by the shoulders and steered her toward a small shack that Preston had given the agents for the night.

"Let Tinker do his thing," he said as he prodded her through the door. "Nothing you can do until he's done, so why not try to focus on the here and now?"

He'd intended to keep her distracted with bogus stories and dumb jokes, hell, maybe even a treasure hunt or interpretive dance if all else failed. But it wasn't long before she found a small stash of alcohol hidden in a wooden cache under the floorboards and decided to help herself.

Thirty minutes later, Sloan was drunk.

Turns out, being frozen for over two hundred years really did a number on one's tolerance for alcohol. She hadn't intended for the third shot to be the one that pushed her into the abyss of drunken bliss, yet there she was, regaling Deacon with various pre-war tales that usually led with something along the lines of, "This one time in college" or "You know what I _don't_ miss?"

Deacon decided he liked drunk Sloan.

He'd gotten her to admit that, despite previously claiming otherwise, her proficiency with a bobby pin actually had nothing to do with being a federal agent and _everything_ to do with being a rebellious teenager.

"I _had_ to learn to pick locks," she said with a sly grin, feet up on the table with a bottle of vodka in one hand. "My dad kept all the good stuff in a goddamned safe."

Her father had been a cop, she explained, and the reason she'd learned to shoot a gun at an early age. Her mother was a psychotherapist who had taught her much of what she knew about human behavior and how to talk her way out of almost anything. They divorced when she was a child, she said. Twice the holiday fun _and_ twice the family feuding. Sloan fell silent after that, likely recalling that both her parents were now long gone, which prompted Deacon to quickly change the subject before she ended up spending the rest of the night wallowing in an alcohol-induced misery.

"So tell me," he drawled, taking a small sip from the bottle they'd pilfered—he was always very careful about how much he drank in the company of others—and offering it back to her. "What kind of shenanigans did a budding thief in the twenty-first century get up to?"

She eyed him, trying to appear offended but the corners of her lips gave her away, tugging slightly upward in amusement. " _Thief?_ "

"Please, don't even. You didn't get _that_ good at picking locks just by busting into your family's safe now and then."

"A thief gets caught," she insisted, a bit of bold pride in her tone. " _I_ never got caught."

And so it continued. Deacon began to egg her on, enjoying the little tidbits of information he could glean about life before the war while simultaneously making sure that she didn't drink _too_ much. He didn't remember how they'd gone from Sloan's disgust for pink collectible plastic ponies to her apparent grudge against fusion-powered trains, but she was on a roll so he went with it.

He chuckled and gave her his best impersonation of a train horn. "That's what they sounded like, right?"

She rolled her eyes, slouching in her chair with the bottle of vodka to her lips. "Yeah, maybe the first ones _ever invented_."

"Oh, come on, I've heard them. They're _cute._ "

Her eyes widened momentarily, a sign she was winding up for a rant. "No, no, no…you don't understand." She sat up straight and began illustrating with her hands rather animatedly. "Picture this: you're living in an apartment in the city and the train tracks happen to be about fifty yards from your building. _Oh_ , how quaint. 'Trains are cool, man, I like counting the cars and shit.' It couldn't be _that_ bad, right?" She paused to give him an expectant look.

Deacon played along. "Who doesn't love to sit and count things?"

Her face contorted in a frown and he struggled to keep a straight face while she practically shouted, "Wrong! It turns out trains don't have a curfew, so what do you hear at _all_ hours of the night? It's that deafening _'BAAAAAAAAAAAHH!'_ It's a noise that drowns out your thoughts and breaks the fucking sound barriers in your _soul_. And it's not a cute little engine with a couple of passenger cars, oh no! This monstrosity is NINETY FUCKING CARS LONG and takes about fifteen eternities to pass through. Fifteen, Deacon! Fifteen! And the conductor does not give a single solitary crap that your work day begins at 6:00 in the morning. He wants CHINA to know that he's rolling through Boston. He has set up _camp_ on top of that _fucking horn_. He is hanging onto that thing like it's a vine and he's Jangles the Moon Monkey! GOD, what is his problem?!"

At that point, Deacon wasn't able to reply for laughing. This was definitely a side of her that he hadn't yet seen. They'd spent the last couple of weeks together, working to secure a way into the Institute, and this was the first time he'd seen her actually relax. She was nonstop, normally. Barely even slept, and when she did, she was restless; tossing and turning, often waking with a start. He'd noticed it during the nights they'd spent away from HQ, while he was pretending to be asleep himself. Sometimes during idle minutes, he'd catch her worrying the gold band around her finger with a distant look on her face. It was moments like those that gave away more about her state of mind than words ever could.

So if she needed one night to relax, free of tension and trauma, then damned if he was going to try and stop her.

"I should file a complaint, that's what I should do," she was slurring into her bottle. "'Dear Mister Train-man-guy-fuckface, get your shit together. You suck and I hope your babies are ugly.' Wait, how much does it cost to mail things to the past?"

"Approximately one half-full bottle of vodka," he replied as he reached over and plucked it from her hand.

"No," she protested weakly, reaching for it half-heartedly.

"Oh, yes. Besides, we have that little errand to run for your Minutemen pals tomorrow. I don't think I have to tell you that the only frightening thing about a rival who stumbles onto the battlefield with a blinding headache and a queasy gut would be the risk of getting hit by projectile vomit."

She made a face at him, and then followed his gaze as he looked toward the door, hearing the sound of knuckles rapping against wood.

"Sorry to bother you," Preston said as he appeared in the doorway.

Sloan grinned as their eyes met. "What's up, homeslice?"

"Home what?" Preston faltered, puzzling over the pre-war term of endearment before he noticed the bottle of vodka in Deacon's hand and Sloan's flushed cheeks. "Uh…are you drunk?"

She scoffed, indignant. "Yes!" A moment later she frowned and shook her head. "I mean _no._ "

The Minuteman chuckled. "Well, anyway, I found a couple extra blankets for you and your…friends. I hope it'll be enough." He held out a small armload of tattered sheets and bedspreads, likely scavenged from the homes in Sanctuary.

"Okay." Sloan attempted to get up from her chair, though only succeeded in sliding down to the floor. "Hang on," she slurred as she groped for support, "I'm coming."

"Yeah, don't do that, _homeslice_. There's a good chance of you hurting yourself." Deacon snickered as he stood up and crossed the small room to accept the pile of blankets. "Thanks a bunch, pal."

Preston nodded. "No problem. Just…make sure she's alright," he added with a slightly worried glance at Sloan, who had given up on standing and was now sprawled on the floor.

"Wow, it's so dirty down here," she remarked loudly.

Deacon's eyes traveled from Sloan to Preston and he nodded. "Don't worry about a thing. She's in good hands, promise."

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything else." Preston bid them farewell and headed back toward the partially-intact house that he shared with most of the other settlers.

Deacon set the blankets onto the chair that he'd been seated in and approached Sloan, holding out a hand to help her up. "Come on, Drunky. Even though it might seem like a fun bonding activity, I don't think you really want to spend the rest of the night digging splinters out of your ass."

She complied, reaching up and grasping his hand. "Oh my god," she groaned as he pulled her to her feet. She stumbled into him as her world shifted. "Shit. I _am_ drunk. I can't even feel my face." Her hand slapped against a cheek. "I can't—" _Slap!_ "—feel—" _Slap!_ "—anything!"

Deacon winced. "That's because you're hitting _my_ face."

Sloan looked at where her hand was currently resting on his reddened cheek. "Oh…Jesus," she managed to say as she dissolved into a fit of giggles. "Sorry," she added, giving his face an apologetic pat that was a bit more forceful than intended and caused his sunglasses to fly off in the process. She stared in shock for a moment, watching them clatter to the floor, before peals of laughter had her sinking back down to her knees.

Deacon was almost just as surprised, suddenly staring back at her with untinted vision. "Alright. I think you need to go to bed. You know, before you _actually_ manage to kill me," he said, although the amusement in his voice was poorly concealed. He had never seen her laugh like this before. He actually kind of liked the sound of it.

She let out a long sigh, wiping away the tears that had streaked down her cheeks as residual giggles escaped her lips. "Yeah, who would carry all my junk if you died?"

"So _that's_ why you keep me around! At last, the truth comes out," he teased as he dropped a couple of blankets onto a mattress nearest her and then knelt down to spread them out. "Here you go, boss. Time to be unconscious."

Sloan maneuvered herself over to the mattress, flopping onto it and sending a cloud of dust into the air. She looked back at him, pausing for a moment before she made a remark that he hadn't expected to hear.

"Hey, you know what? You have really nice eyes..." She peered closer, making him feel a bit too exposed for comfort. Where the hell had his sunglasses gone? Sloan continued, "But they look kinda sad."

He laughed, sitting back and breaking eye contact. "That's because you're drunk, Charms. _Really_ drunk."

She snorted. "Probably." Willing to accept that answer in her inebriated state, Sloan laid on her side and pulled a blanket over herself.

Deacon moved back to the chair after he'd spotted and retrieved his sunglasses from where they'd scattered across the room, settling into it once more. He spent the next few minutes having a smoke and idly listening to the sound of Sloan's breathing as it grew steadier and deeper. Soon she began to emit soft snores, her limbs twitching every so often as she slept. He exhaled a mouthful of smoke, watching while it curled up toward the shoddy ceiling and vaguely wondering if _he'd_ ever be able to sleep that soundly.

 

oOo

 

**DECEMBER 9, 2287**

 

It wasn't the noise that woke him, but the absence of it. He opened his eyes, quickly scanning his surroundings with slightly blurred vision as he straightened up in his seat and readjusted the sunglasses which had been sitting askew on his face. He must have drifted off some time ago, because rays of light were now peeking in through the shack window, and the candle on the table beside him had long since burned out.

Tinker and his boys were still sprawled out on the opposite side of the room in a deep sleep, just as they had been for the past several hours. But when his eyes traveled over to his partner, he had to stifle a snort. She'd rolled right off the mattress in the night, and had taken all of the blankets along with her; they were wrapped around her and piled on top of her, completely obscuring her from view. The only indication that she was actually under there was the subtle rise and fall of the pile as she breathed. The snoring had ceased, which he guessed was the reason that he'd woken up.

The chair creaked as Deacon stood up and stretched his limbs, carefully tilting his neck from side to side. That damned crick was going to annoy him all day.

A low moan came from beneath a mound of blankets on the floor just then, signaling the onset of Sloan's ascent from the dead.

Deacon made his footsteps deliberate as he approached her cloth cocoon, looking and sounding _far_ more cheerful than anyone ever should at that hour as he called out, "Rise and shine, Charm-charms!" He chuckled at the muffled curse he received in response, gently tapping her leg—or what he assumed was her leg—with his foot. "Come on now, up and at 'em."

"Ugh…" There was movement beneath the blankets, and after a moment Sloan's head appeared. Her hair was a mess, her eyes bleary with sleep as she grimaced and clutched at her head with one hand. "Can you not do that thing where you open your mouth and sounds come out?"

He sniggered, keeping his voice down as not to wake the others. "And have you miss out on all my poetic musings and snappy comebacks? Look, I'll make you a deal—you drag yourself up and get ready to go, and I'll see if I can find some coffee. No promises, but I won't come back empty-handed."

Sloan mumbled something incoherent but wiggled herself out of her blanket entrapment and Deacon turned to head out the door and scrounge up some sort of caffeinated beverage.

Twenty minutes later, Sloan was up and ready to go. Deacon had managed to find a Nuka Cola stashed in the community house, and while it wasn't the coffee that he'd set out for, she was just grateful for something to help kick-start her day. After all, beggars couldn't be choosers.

He'd teased her relentlessly for half the day while she nursed her hangover and did her very best to act like her stomach _wasn't_ churning uncomfortably and no, the light wasn't bothering her _at all_ , she just had something in her eyes. Like dust. Or radiation. And wow, was the sun always so bright? At one point she had to dash over to a ditch and vomit just as they were sneaking into the enemy encampment, which happened to attract the attention of a couple of the raiders within. Luckily they'd only seen Sloan, and Deacon was able to take them by surprise before they could cause any real harm other than viciously mock Sloan's condition.

On the bright side, Sloan felt _much_ better afterward.

It was late afternoon when the two of them strolled into the settlement, wearing minimal damage and hauling a whole sack full of bullets. That was one of the pros when it came to raiding the raiders.

Besides, a few less murdering maniacs in the world never hurt anyone.

"Oh, they're really gone? I can't thank you enough," the middle-aged woman gushed when they informed her that the raider problem had been taken care of. "Really, thank you so much! It's such a relief knowing that we'll actually be able to sleep tonight without worrying about those awful men coming back. Here…please, take this." She held up a brown leather sack, caps clinking inside it as she shoved it into Sloan's hands. "I know it's not much, but it's all we can spare. And tell your General that we'll gladly support the Minutemen from here on."

Sloan nodded, still holding the sack of caps as if waiting for the woman to change her mind. "Of course. He'll be happy to hear it." She glanced down. "Hey, you sure you don't need—?"

The woman waved a hand dismissively. "It's yours, you've earned it."

"Well…alright." She nodded, signaling her departure. "Take care of yourselves."

Deacon fell into step beside her and they began to head back toward Sanctuary. He grinned at the sack of caps that jingled while she walked. "Man, keep racking up your bank account like that and I might need to teach you a game I call…poker."

She looked over at him, arching an eyebrow. "Poker? What's that? Wait, don't tell me—it must be a game where people run around poking each other with sticks. Winner is the one with both eyes intact at the end."

"See, you already know the rules! They say baseball was influenced by poker, you know."

Sloan rolled her eyes, remembering _that_ bizarre conversation. She'd been unable to resist feeding Moe's misguided beliefs of what the sport really was, though, and now he was convinced that the spectators were traditionally beaten to death by the competing teams. She _maybe_ shouldn't have facilitated that bogus theory, but hell, she'd never been a fan of baseball anyway. At least now it was more interesting.

She turned her head to shoot Deacon a grin. "Alright, maybe we should play a game. You'll have to go easy on me, though. I'm really not very good."

He chuckled. "You got it, buddy. We'll do that when you get back from the Institute in one piece. It'll be part of the celebration, along with all the Nuka Cola you can drink. I'll have a whole truckload waiting in Sanctuary when you get back."

Sloan smirked. "Oh, you mean the one you already owe me for bashing Kellogg's brains in?"

"Alright, alright. _Two_ truckloads."

"Yeah, yeah. Promises, promises." She spotted the truck stop's red rocket through the spindly tree branches up ahead. They'd be back at Sanctuary soon. Sloan wondered about the progress of the teleportation device. How much longer until it was completed? She bit her lip, her thoughts immediately jumping to the what-ifs and maybes associated with the entire ordeal, and before she could stop herself she was adding, " _If_ I make it back."

"You'll be fine, boss," Deacon was quick to reply. "Tinker Tom's devices usually work. If not, uh, can I have your stuff?" The concern in his tone was most likely not supposed to be apparent, but it was there nonetheless.

Fact was, nobody had ever done what she'd signed up to do. Hijacking the Institute's relay was risky and could potentially have _disastrous_ results. There was the chance that it _wouldn't_ work and she'd simply be obliterated in the process. But Sloan knew she couldn't afford to think about whether or not this would be the last long walk she'd ever take, whether or not Deacon would be the last person she'd ever have a conversation with, whether or not mirelurk egg would be the last thing she'd ever eat for breakfast.

So she huffed in response, lightly punching Deacon's shoulder. "If not, then you have to promise to water my plants when I'm gone."


	10. Descent

**DECEMBER 10, 2287**

 

_Don't react._

"Good afternoon, ma'am. It's an honor to meet you."

_Smile and nod. Keep walking._

"Oh, hello. You must be so excited to be here! I'll bet you've been busy."

_Laugh. Agree. Don't stop moving._

"So what do you think? Will you be staying here with us?"

_Answer with enthusiasm. Lie. Yes. Yes, of course._

"Glad to hear it! Well, I won't take up any more of your time—we'll talk later, I'm sure."

_Concur. Be positive. Ask where the restroom is. Walk away._

"Scanning unknown identity…clearance confirmed."

_Don't react._

_Don't react._

_Don't react._

A door slid open with a quiet hiss _._ Eyes were on her. She stepped inside, keeping her shoulders stiff and her back straight. Threw in a soft smile from over her shoulder.

Like she couldn't be more proud of what she'd found.

Like today was just the _greatest day ever._

Like her entire world hadn't just shattered all over again.

The room was white, much like all the others, and smelled faintly of bleach. Clean and bright. It reminded her of a hospital. _So_ much white. Not a speck of dust or a spot of blood to be seen; out of place in a world where everything else was dull and ruined. Once upon a time, such a sight would have been welcomed. Now it was only unnerving.

After the door shut tight behind her, she remained rooted to the spot for a long time. Too long. Staring ahead at nothing, a numbness washing over her and a sickness roiling in her stomach. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

_A lie. It has to be a lie._

The aged, gravelly voice still echoed in the back of her mind. _"It's me._ I _am Shaun."_

_No._

_"_ _I am…your son."_

_No!_

Warning bells had played a symphony inside her head. Shock had silenced her. He'd stared back at her with hauntingly familiar eyes and she'd felt cold. Hollow.

 _Don't react,_ the voice in her head had ordered. _Don't react. Stay calm. Seek answers._ _"How?"_ She had managed to ask, professional habit kicking in and keeping her emotions in check. _"How is that even possible?"_

 _"_ _Is it really so hard to accept that it was not ten, but_ sixty _years?"_

No. No, time wasn't the problem. Sloan had been ready to accept that her son was far older than she'd anticipated. But what she _couldn't_ accept was learning that he was the head of the snake she'd sworn to sever. Their _leader._ Their _Father._

 _Fuck it all,_ he wasn't the victim. He was the goddamned villain.

_It's a lie. It's a nightmare. Wake up, wake up, wake up!_

Sloan's hands gripped the sink so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Sick. She was going to be sick.

From the moment she'd set foot inside those too-white walls, she had known something was off. She was supposed to have infiltrated the underground facility. To slip in unnoticed, to recite her cover story when questioned. She'd planned it all out the night before, with Deacon's help. They'd gone over several different scenarios, some of which included the possibility of being discovered early on and having to fight her way through the Institute if need be. She'd been prepared to say anything, _do_ anything, to sell her cover and make her way to her son. She had never expected to be…well, _expected._ She had barely recovered from the relay, only just acclimated to the lighting, was still regaining her equilibrium when a voice had spoken to her over an intercom. _His_ voice. Calling her, luring her toward the bait. The boy. _The synth._

 _Oh, god. The synth._ For two whole heartrending, torturous minutes Sloan had believed the child was actually her son. Her heart had stuttered in her chest when she'd walked into the room and saw him sitting behind the glass, unable to resist calling out to him. She'd known that he would most likely not recognize her, that she would have to convince him to escape with her, that he'd probably resist. The Institute had raised him. Of course he'd be averse to leaving the only home he'd ever known.

But all the same, there was no denying the crushing despair she'd felt when the boy began to call for help, for _Father._

 _"_ _He's not your father,"_ she'd tried to tell him. _"I'll explain everything, I promise. You're not safe here, Shaun. Please just open the door."_ It wasn't her best attempt at persuasion, though in retrospect, she wasn't sure that _anything_ she'd said could have worked. Even if he'd been the real Shaun, any child would have been nuts to trust a complete stranger.

There hadn't been any time to convince the boy further, because seconds later, he stilled and his head lolled forward.

 _"_ _Shaun. S9-23, recall code: Cirrus."_

Sloan had been a hair's breadth from launching herself forward and pinning the old man against the armored glass window, not quite registering what she'd just witnessed. Her fists had trembled at her sides as she stalked closer, all venom and ire as she informed him that he had exactly four seconds to explain what he'd just done to Shaun before she decorated him with enough lead to poison a Deathclaw.

 _"_ I _am Shaun,"_ his voice echoed once more inside her head. _"_ I _am your son."_

_Stop. Stop!_

But no matter how her frantic mind tried to rationalize it, there was no denying the facts. He had no reason to lie to her. What could he possibly gain from it? For what other reason would he want her here? She'd not done the Institute any favors above ground. She'd killed Kellogg, destroyed a Courser, aided the Railroad in helping rogue synths escape. By all accounts, the Institute should want her dead. And she probably _would_ be dead, if not for the fact that their leader just happened to be of her own flesh and blood.

Father…Shaun…wanted her to remain with him. To help him, even. To be a part of everything he had built and prided himself on. To have the chance to begin again.

Together. As a family.

_Oh, goddamn it all._

Sloan's reflection stared back at her in the pristine, shiny mirror mounted above an equally immaculate sink. She almost didn't recognize herself; hair unkempt and finger-combed, skin scratched and sun kissed, cheeks slightly gaunt after two months of wasteland living.

At least her outfit wasn't too attention-grabbing, thanks to the dusty lab coat that Deacon had managed to pilfer for her.

 _"_ _If you're going to pose as an Institute egghead, it helps to look the part,"_ she remembered him saying as he'd pressed the white bundle into her hands.

Sloan's mind conjured up the image of her partner just then; his eyes obscured by tinted shades, mirthful smirk on his lips, thumb and forefinger cradling his dimpled chin in mock thought as they'd passed ideas back and forth the night before.

 _"_ _You could say you're with the maintenance crew. 'Just here to patch up that pesky duct!' Ooh! Or a custodian. Nobody ever questions the janitor, am I right?"_

She hadn't expected it, but somehow the memory seemed to have a palliative effect. It was subtle at best, but just enough to break through the white noise of panic and shock, so she held on to it. Found herself trying to recall every joke and flippant remark he'd made during her last moments in Sanctuary, when her stomach had been doing backflips in anticipation.

 _"_ _Remember,"_ he'd said, _"when in doubt, just act like you belong. Always works for me."_

Sloan had forced a laugh, her palms clammy as she stood upon the platform and waited for Tom to work his magic. _"Well, send me some good vibes, then."_

 _"_ _You won't need them, boss. You got this. Hey, while we're on the subject, think you could bring me back a souvenir? Like a snow globe, or maybe a keychain. I'm a sucker for tacky memorabilia."_

In another situation, she might have been a little embarrassed by how much his voice in her head helped to ground her. It made sense, though; it had worked once before. And under her current circumstances, she was willing to grasp at anything that could help.

She closed her eyes, leaning onto the sink, shoulders hunched, breathing deeply.

In and out, in and out.

_Focus. Think. Don't feel._

Time was ticking. She'd been thrown for a loop and had no Earthly clue how to deal with this new information, but it didn't change the fact that she had some special tasks to complete; namely making contact with the Railroad's most guarded secret, Patriot, and retrieving the serum from Virgil's FEV lab. People were counting on her, and at the very least, these tasks gave her something else to focus on.

Furthermore, if she remained inside the bathroom for much longer, the inhabitants of the Institute would suspect something was amiss.

The show had to go on.

Sloan let out a long breath. She reached forward to turn on the faucet, cupping her hands beneath a small stream of cold water and then bending over the sink to splash her face. There was much to do. She still had to meet with three more of the Institute's division heads, still had to smile and nod and act interested as they glossed over the atrocities their facility had committed against _actual fucking human beings_ and insisted that they were truly "humanity's best hope for the future."

 _Mankind—redefined._ They all seemed so goddamned proud of that slogan. Of _themselves_. The whole place was a perfect melting pot of narcissists and psychopaths alike. It made her skin crawl.

But despite her feelings about it, Sloan had nodded along when Shaun asked her to keep an open mind and give him a chance to prove to her that the rumors swirling within the Commonwealth were completely false. That those above ground had nothing to fear from the Institute.

 _"_ _I've been a part of something amazing here. I've helped to build a life for myself and the people of the Institute…and now, after all these years, you have an opportunity to help with that. Doesn't that intrigue you? Isn't that what you want?"_

 _"_ _Yes, it is,"_ she'd somehow blurted out automatically despite the parched feeling in her throat. A moment later she drove the claim home with, _"I'd like to be a part of it, too. I'd…like to be a part of your life."_

It had surprised her how easily he'd accepted that answer. Sloan was wary of this, still not convinced that she hadn't walked straight into an elaborate trap. Either Shaun was a harder read than Deacon or he really _was_ naïve enough to blindly trust her solely because of who she was to him.

Regardless, she had found herself in a unique position. Whatever she chose to do from that moment on, it was clear that she couldn't afford to waste that opportunity.

 

oOo

 

**DECEMBER 12, 2287**

 

Two days passed since she'd been transported to the Institute. Two days since she'd discovered the truth of what had happened to her infant son all those years ago. Two days since she'd been invited to become a part of the Institute and everything it stood for. Two days since she had agreed to the arrangement.

_Two days._

Two long, excruciating days that she had spent feigning interest in the Institute's projects and the scientists who facilitated them, all the while smothering her true feelings in the furthest, darkest corner of her psyche. It was exhausting. Mentally and emotionally _fucking exhausting._ She felt drained. Numb and overwhelmed all at once. But within these walls, Sloan knew she would find no respite.

Shaun accommodated her with a suite of her own, seeing to it that she had all the necessary comforts of home available to her. It was fully furnished, comprised of a sitting area, a bathroom and a bedroom. The bed was large and clean, boasting an ergonomic mattress that she was told could be adjusted to whatever position and temperature she wished. The first night, she had taken the blanket from it and huddled up on the floor in the furthest corner of the room.

It was too warm. Too clean. Too soft. Not like what she'd grown accustomed to over the past two months. At night—or what her Pip Boy told her was night, seeing as there was no view of the sky down in the Institute—everything fell silent and still. There was no danger of being attacked by feral ghouls or gunned down by a group of raiders. No cold wind that swept through the room from cracks in the walls and chilled her bones while she slept. No sudden _'pop, pop, pop'_ in the distance to wake her in the middle of the night and force her to abandon camp at a moment's notice.

Frankly, it was unsettling. Sloan had never thought the day would come where she felt so unnerved in a place so heavily protected.

 _"_ _The safer I'm supposed to feel, the more paranoid I get,"_ Deacon had commented at one point during their travels, and now Sloan understood what he meant in a way that she hadn't before.

After being shown to her new quarters, she managed to sneak away for a moment and upload Tinker Tom's encrypted message onto one of the terminals without alerting any suspicion. Later that night, when most of the Institute was asleep in their plush, too-comfortable beds, Sloan slipped through the shadows of the corridors and met up with a scientist from Advanced Systems named Liam Binet—better known to the Railroad as 'Patriot.' He was a fresh-faced young man who looked like he was barely past his teenage years and, as it turned out, had no real idea of his significance to the Railroad. Liam told her that he'd begun freeing the synths without knowing whether or not they'd be guided to safety by a helping hand on the surface, though he seemed very pleased to discover that he'd been coordinating with the Railroad the entire time. He was also eager to continue doing so, even proposing a strategy to help over a dozen synths to escape the Institute at once.

It was a welcome distraction, really.

The next night, Liam was able to introduce her to Z1-14, and the three of them spent some time discussing the plan in further detail. It boiled down to Liam needing a pre-war username and password from above ground in order to access the security program utilized by the SRB before the plan could progress any further.

Sloan shrugged helplessly. "Where would I find that? Seems like everywhere obvious would've been scavenged a long time ago."

"Unfortunately, that's the problem," Liam replied. "Ask your friends in the Railroad. Hopefully someone there will know something. I need those credentials, otherwise we're stuck."

She nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

They parted ways from there, although rather than return to her quarters for what was sure to be a sleepless night, Sloan opted to search for the FEV lab and acquire the serum for Virgil. Shaun had granted her access to any part of the Institute that she wished to go, so none of the patrolling synths gave her any trouble when it came to exploring certain restricted areas. One locked door was all that stood between Sloan and the abandoned Bioscience lab, as it turned out.

But beyond that door, she found much more than just the cure. What she found was yet another horror that the Institute seemed keen on glossing over. It was like a scene from the sci-fi movies she and Nate used to watch together, and her hand clapped over her mouth as she took in the sight.

Glass, cylindrical tanks in the center of the room held what appeared to be super mutants suspended within them. Experiments, Sloan realized with a wave of horror. _Human experiments._ The green-tinted liquid within the tanks reflected color onto every nearby surface, casting an eerie glow throughout the room.

Unable to turn away, she'd dug around a little. Read through the terminals. Listened to the holotapes and Virgil's own account of what had been happening. Discovered why he'd participated in such a horrific atrocity and why he had ultimately left the Institute. Virgil, Sloan came to understand in the hours she spent pouring over documents, was not the shady man she'd initially made him out to be in her mind. In the end, he'd made the right choice despite whatever consequences might have befallen him.

But Shaun…?

_Shaun._

His role in all of this was undeniable. The proof was right there in front of her. There was no refuting it. She felt her stomach turn and her throat tighten. How? How could her own son have turned out this way? It wasn't right. By allowing—no, _encouraging—_ those experiments, was Shaun just as guilty as the scientists who willingly carried them out?

Deep down, she knew the answer already. But she couldn't think about it. Not now. Not here. Not when there was already so much to consider.

 _Too much._ It was all too much. She wandered back to her quarters in a daze, unsure of exactly how she'd gotten there or how long it had taken her to do so. She stepped into the shower and mechanically shed her clothes, then turned on the water and simply stood beneath the luxurious spray for an indeterminable amount of time, her heart beating to the rhythm of the pounding inside her head.

To occupy her mind, she counted to a thousand. The water never went cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, the Angst Train has arrived at the station—all aboard! Okay, but seriously, I actually REALLY enjoyed writing this chapter. Putting my characters through all kinds of hell is my jam and we’re gonna start to see that some more as the story progresses *steeples fingers and cackles as lightning strikes in the background* 
> 
> This ended up being split up from a longer chapter because I couldn't decide how I wanted to transition the scenes. So hopefully the next one will be up very soon! :)


	11. Devastation

**DECEMBER 13, 2287**

 

"Well that was fun! And productive," the friendly brunette lowered the laser pistol and gestured toward the target range with her free hand. "Plus, you hit every mark! I'm really impressed. Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

Sloan offered her best sheepish grin, inwardly cursing herself for not deliberately missing more often. "When I was young, my father taught me. Shooting's been a hobby of mine ever since."

Rosalind gave her a friendly smile. "That would explain it! No wonder you've done so well on the surface."

"It hasn't always been easy," Sloan replied with a shrug. "But I've managed." She set the laser pistol she'd been helping the scientist test out onto the table nearby.

"You sure have! So I know you've probably heard this question a dozen times already, but have you decided whether or not you'll be staying with us?"

Sloan nodded. "Yes, I actually already have a space set up."

"Oh! Oh, gosh, I should have known. I've had my nose in my work for too long," she said with a laugh. "Anyway, speaking of which, I guess I should get back to it. But thank you for taking the time to help me out! I was able to get some great data. We'll have to do this again once I make some improvements to the prototype."

"Absolutely. Just let me know when."

"Will do!"

Bidding the bubbly scientist farewell, Sloan turned and headed out the door of the Advanced Systems division. She hadn't initially come for target practice; one of the scientists in that particular division, a woman by the name of Madison Li, had borrowed her Pip Boy for the afternoon in order to install a chip that would enable Sloan to enjoy the full benefits of the Institute's relay technology. More to the point—Sloan would be able to _leave_ the Institute _._ She'd tried her best not to appear anxious to get her Pip Boy back, thanking Dr. Li despite the woman's somewhat hostile demeanor and promising that she wouldn't get in the way of any important procedures.

On the way out, she'd bumped into Rosalind Orman, who was so excited to talk with her that Sloan hadn't managed to find a plausible excuse for leaving until after spending a bit of time conversing. Which had inevitably led to some impromptu target practice. Not that Sloan minded that part—shooting had always been a nice outlet.

Now, however, she was finally free to come and go as she pleased. And as far as she was concerned, the latter couldn't happen quickly enough. This marked her third day underground, and she felt as though she were slowly suffocating.

Sloan made sure to drop by Shaun's office on her way to the relay room, letting him know that she had a few things to take care of above ground but assuring him that she would return as soon as she was able. She'd been careful with her body language; relaxed posture, a gentle touch on the arm, a small smile.

Her footsteps remained at an even pace as she made her way toward the relay room, even while her heart was doing cartwheels in anticipation. She needed to get out of there. To breathe. To strip off the mask of interest and eagerness that she'd adopted as her armor in this place.

She wasn't quite certain how the courser chip installed inside her Pip Boy was supposed to be controlled, but the scientists in the relay room were already familiar with her situation.

"It's quite simple," one woman said. "All you have to do is input the correct coordinates on your Pip Boy, enter the command, and the relay system will take care of everything else."

With their help, Sloan entered the coordinates to Sanctuary Hills. It was only a moment before she was enveloped by a blinding light and swept away. The feeling of being pulled apart and reassembled elsewhere wasn't something she felt she'd ever get used to, much less make sense of. Intense vertigo, weightlessness…and less than a second later, her feet were hitting the ground again.

The bright light was gone in an instant. Her legs wobbled from a momentary loss of balance while her eyes readjusted to the dim lighting of the dreary wasteland. Her nose picked up the smell of ozone, fading quickly beneath the gentle patter of raindrops on her skin.

It felt like waking up; as if she'd just stepped out of a bizarre dream.

Sloan drew in a deep breath, and then another. She took several stumbling steps forward, still regaining her equilibrium, noting that she'd not been transported back to the platform Tinker Tom had constructed, but to a vacant yard of an abandoned Sanctuary home. In the distance, she could hear the murmuring of the settlers as they conversed together. They hadn't yet noticed her reappearance, and for that she was grateful. She wasn't ready to face anyone, nor the questions that would surely follow.

Not yet. Not when her mind was such a convoluted mess.

Unsure of what to do, Sloan wandered aimlessly. Her body was on autopilot, her mind wrestling with the truths that she'd uncovered during her time underground.

Synths.

Human experiments.

Her son.

_Shaun._

Maybe she could still save him, the stubbornly optimistic and slightly insane part of her mind proposed. Maybe she could convince him that he'd been wrongfully brainwashed by the Institute. Maybe she could talk him into leaving and returning to the surface with her.

Shit, shit. The thought alone was crazy, and she knew it. The Institute was his pride, his life's work. He'd said it himself. How could she ever manage to persuade him to give all of that up? How, after sixty years, could she ever get him to change?

Sloan came to a stop. It took her a moment to realize the reason. If she'd been paying attention to where her legs were carrying her, she probably wouldn't have been walking in that direction. After all, it was one of the last things she'd wanted to lay her eyes upon.

That stupid house.

Her old home, her anathema, stood before her now; what remained of it, anyway. It was merely bones now…just a memory. Much like everything else in this world. Ruined, wasted. Her hands balled into fists at her sides as she looked it over. Collapsing roof, broken windows, splintered walls. The car was still parked in the driveway where she'd left it the morning before the bombs dropped. She'd gone to return a movie and pick up some Halloween candy. Nate had class that afternoon, but they had planned to spend some time together as a family. A bike ride to the park and then a quick stop at the crepe stand. Afterward, Nate wanted to show her a new coffee shop he'd gone to with some classmates for a study session. Later that day, Sloan was supposed to take Shaun to her mother-in-law's house to pick up some clothes she'd bought for him. It was supposed to be a day like any other.

Sloan felt her jaw tense, looking at the dilapidated home before her. Mocking her. Taunting her with memories of her past. Scorning her with the broken promise of a blissful future.

_That fucking house._

It had no right to be standing, reminding her of all that she had lost. Why should it get to survive? Nothing and nobody she'd ever cared for had been awarded the same courtesy.

Her friends, her family. They were dead.

Her co-workers and her neighbors. All of them dead as well.

That lady from the coffee shop. That radio DJ she couldn't fucking stand. Her fourth grade teacher who'd suspended her for dumping sand on another girl's head. The boy she'd kissed in the rain while they'd laughed about a lame episode of the Silver Shroud.

Every single one of them—dead. The only loved one who remained was the son she should have been able to save. She'd held on and she'd fought. The road was fraught with difficulty, but she'd been determined and she'd been strong. This whole time, she'd persevered.

_And for what?_

Above her, the house loomed. Split walls grinned down at her, warped by shadows while glassless windows leered like soulless black eyes. And as she glowered before it, a storm was roiling deep within her chest. It beat hard against the walls of her heart, swirled beneath the surface of her skin, pounded away between her ears.

Suddenly her feet were propelling her forward, through the broken doorway and across the creaking floorboards. The first object she met with was thrown across the room, the next shattered against a wall. She hurled one bar stool and then another against the walls. Rage took hold of her as she swept from room to room, kicking and pitching and breaking whatever stood in her path. A board game sailed through the window. The sofa groaned as she overturned it. A broken lamp stand violently smashed every surviving picture or painting.

All throughout the house, memories were torn from the walls and ripped from the shelves, falling victim to fury.

But when she spun on the ball of her foot to face the last room, chest heaving with exertion, something stopped her in her tracks. Her eyes drifted over each piece of furniture, each scattered toy. Her heart burned at the sight of it.

_For what?_

Sloan's hands became fists at her sides. None of this belonged here anymore. It had to go.

Stalking out the front door, she strode toward the community house. She kept her head down, eyes forward, and in the darkness the few settlers scattered nearby paid her no mind. There were several storage trunks around back; she'd seen Preston pulling supplies from them the other day. He _had_ told her that she was welcome to help herself to whatever she needed.

The metal trunks were locked tight, but it was nothing she couldn't handle. One bent bobby pin later and the lid creaked open, spoils on display. She reached inside to grasp the jug with one hand, and something extra with the other.

She heard whispers during the walk back across the street. Someone called out to her, but she paid the voice no mind. Let them talk. She didn't care.

Back inside her old house, her cursed carcass of a home, Sloan set to work. Gripping the jug, she doused the countertops, sprinkled the floor, soaked the couch. She splashed the broken bed frame and the splintered ruins that had once resembled furniture. In Shaun's old bedroom, she dumped the remainder of the flamer fuel onto the dusty blue crib.

Tossing the empty jug aside, Sloan backed out of the room, making her way toward the front of the house. One last look, she supposed. After this, she'd never have to set eyes on it again.

Out the front door, thirty paces in the opposite direction, she slowed to a stop and pulled the glass bottle from her pocket.

"Hey!" A voice called out in the distance.

But nothing could stop her now.

Sloan turned to face her target with a wild look in her eyes, lips twisting almost imperceptibly at the prospect of what she was about to do. Someone was running toward her, shouting to her, but it was too late.

She lit the wick and lobbed the incendiary cocktail through the doorway. It exploded on the floor and ignited in an instant.

The flames were glorious, illuminating the night sky and immediately warming her skin. Sloan watched, enraptured by the incandescence of yellows, oranges and reds. She wasn't sure how long she stood there, though the house caught fire quickly. The blaze spread from one room to the next, until the entire thing was engulfed in a hazy, orange glow.

"Sloan!"

She turned, catching sight of Preston and several horrified settlers standing far behind him. He looked as though he was expecting an explanation, or at least some kind of reason; _"It was infested with radroaches"_ or _"Sorry guys, I got carried away with the s'mores."_ But she offered nothing but a blank stare.

Preston tried again, stepping closer, one hand held toward her as his eyes flickered from her to the raging fire in the background. "Sloan, what—what did you do?!"

Sloan watched him for a moment, taking in his flabbergasted appearance. His mouth hung ajar, eyes wide. _Bulging_ eyes, almost perfectly spherical. For one crazy moment she was reminded of those ridiculous googly eyes that kids used to glue onto inanimate objects as a joke.

_Googly eyes._

And she just couldn't help it. She was suddenly struck by how _goddamned funny_ that was. A low, giddy cackle bubbled up from her chest as the flames rose higher, hot against her back. His expression was priceless. The onlookers had no idea what to do. Marcy Long was screaming profanities.

And she just didn't care.

 _Fuck it._ Let it all burn.

Pivoting on one foot, she began walking down the road toward the bridge, shoulders stiff and staring straight ahead.

Preston was quick to pursue her. He caught up to her quickly and called out, "Hey, wait! Where are you going? We need to put that fire out!" He was confused, surely thinking that she hadn't _meant_ to do that. He reached for her arm, but seemed surprised when she wrenched it from his grasp.

"It's a fucking eyesore," she snapped in response. "Leave it."

Without sparing the scene another glance, Sloan stalked off, leaving the flabbergasted Minuteman to stare at the blazing inferno as it continued to turn the old home to ashes. Her feet guided her across the broken bridge, away from Sanctuary and the unpleasant reminders of a life best left forgotten.

Past the Red Rocket truck stop and near the outskirts of Concord was when she slowed her pace. An odd sensation was brewing within her, bubbling up inside her chest.

Suddenly a spate of giggles escaped her. One hand clapped over her mouth, but failed to stop the second bout…or the third. There was no humor in any of this, she was painfully aware, but she couldn't stop. It wasn't funny, but it _was._ Her life, turned upside down in the worst way imaginable. It was like a bad sci-fi flick, the kind she and Nate used to make fun of. Who was watching her? Who was now yelling at their television screen with each dramatic plot twist?

Consumed by helpless laughter, she slowly sank to her knees until she was seated upon a patch of dead, dull grass. Shoulders shaking, she laughed even as her sides began to ache and her lungs could scarcely draw breath, teetering on the brink of hysteria.

By the time the tears began to streak down her cheeks, the laughter had graduated to frantic, heaving gasps. When the tremors took control of her body, the gasps became screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, some of you guys DID ask me for sparks. Does arson count? *dodges tomato* Hohoho. Yeah, so that was fun. For me, anyway, not for poor Sloan. It'll get better soon, though! Deacon returns either next chapter or the one after that. I had originally planned this chapter much differently—in fact it was the very first part of this fic I'd ever written and did not include Sloan burning her house down, lol. I ended up only using a paragraph or two from the original and cut the rest. Pfft, go figure.
> 
> Anyway, as usual, thanks for reading! If you've got a thought, I'd love to hear it—feedback is my fuel, man. That and chai. Mmm, chai. Anyway, 'til next time!


	12. Ghosts Of Yesterday

**DECEMBER 16, 2287**

 

Sloan groaned as a muffled cry pierced through the ambiance of midnight slumber, pulling her from a blissful reprieve without worries or responsibilities; no bills to pay, no household chores, no familial conflicts, and certainly no shrieking infant to tend to.

She froze in her half-awake state, wondering if perhaps it was a one-time wail and he'd fall asleep again before she had to rouse herself. But she knew there was no avoiding it when the cry came again, and then again, until the baby monitor was broadcasting a steady stream of sobs.

"Hon," Nate mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed as he gently brushed against her shoulder with his own. "It's your turn."

"I know, I know…" Sloan rolled over, reluctantly sitting up and sliding out of the queen-sized cocoon of warmth they'd been sharing.

The hardwood floor felt cool against her bare feet when she stood up, yawning as she pulled on her husband's sweatshirt. He was already drifting off to sleep once more, snoring softly even as the whimpers and wails continued from the baby's room across the hall. Sloan rolled her eyes. She used to joke that he could probably sleep through the apocalypse, but since the birth of their son nearly two months ago, he'd been a bit easier to wake. Hell, the both of them had grown accustomed to sleeping very little as of late.

She padded across the hall to Shaun's room, one hand sliding over the wall to guide her in the darkness. The house wasn't quite as new to her now, but she still hadn't memorized the distances between each of the walls, or the exact number of steps it took to reach one room from another, or when to avoid that corner she'd once banged her elbow on.

The night light near the crib emitted a soft orange glow, allowing her a good view of her son as she drew closer. He was fitfully kicking his little legs, hands balled into tiny fists, his face scrunched up in fret. The small blanket that Nate had draped over him the last time he'd been put to bed had been pushed aside.

Sloan bent over the crib to scoop up her squalling son. "It's okay, kiddo, I got you," she said softly.

Shaun wasn't hungry and he didn't need changing, she deduced when he continued to fuss even after she'd attempted a feeding and a diaper check.

"You _do_ know that nighttime is for sleeping, right?" She repressed a yawn as she cradled her son to her chest, doing her best to comfort him. His whimpers eventually began to subside while she swayed from side to side, her fingers stroking through his tuft of dark hair.

She remained like that until the baby stilled, finally drifting off into a peaceful sleep once again. Sloan waited a few minutes longer before she settled him back into his crib, just to be sure he wouldn't wake the moment she put him down. After covering him up and placing a small kiss to his forehead, she silently backed out of his room and retreated across the hall.

Nate's warm arms wrapped around her the moment she settled back into bed beside him, pulling her close to his chest. "Is everything okay?" He asked, his voice husky as he nuzzled into her shoulder.

"No. There's a poltergeist in his closet. We have to move."

He chuckled. "You joke, but just wait until he's five and you can't convince him there are no monsters under his bed."

"If it's monsters, I can deal with that," she replied, a smile on her lips as he placed soft kisses along the nape of her neck. "I catch those for a living, anyway."

"Mhm." Nate's grin pressed into her skin, uttering a muffled chuckle. "Like I'd ever forget my wife is a total badass _._ " His hand slipped beneath her camisole, calloused fingers hot against her skin as they swept up her side and glided over her ribs, pausing to strum the elastic band of her top. "Which I find really, really hot, by the way."

Sloan let out a sleepy giggle, squirming beneath his touch and half-heartedly objecting to his advances. "Hey there, handsy. I do need _some_ sleep. I have to meet my personal trainer at nine."

"You mean you actually thought we'd even _get_ to sleep tonight? He'll be awake again in an hour…" Nate's voice dropped low, rumbling against her neck as he kissed his way up to her jawline. "He's stubborn…" His lips glided over her ear, stubble tickling her skin. "Takes after his mom…"

Sloan laughed again and swiftly rolled over to capture his lips with her own, her kiss quickly becoming fervid and needy, delighted when Nate responded in equal enthusiasm. His hand slid down to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him as Sloan hummed her approval into his mouth.

 _"_ _Hello,"_ a voice spoke through the baby monitor just then.

Sloan stilled, her lips suspended against Nate's. A wave of unease washed over her and she pulled away, eyes darting around in the darkness. "What was that?"

"What was what?" He asked, confused. "I didn't hear anything."

 _"_ _I wondered if you might make it here. You're quite resourceful."_

There it was again.

"Nate…"

"It's okay, hon." His hands felt cold all of a sudden.

 _"_ _I know why you're here. I'd like to discuss things face to face."_

"Nate." Sloan's tone became urgent, her eyes growing wide. His touch gave her goosebumps. "Nate, you're fucking freezing."

"Don't worry," he said, suddenly sounding as if he were miles away, "everything is going to be fine."

 _"_ _I can only imagine what you've heard, what you must think of us."_

Sloan shook her head. "No, something's wrong. We need to go," she insisted, her fingers curling around his arm. "You need help, Nate, come on!"

But he didn't appear to be listening. "This will be our new home," he said, sending a shiver straight through her spine.

 _"_ _I'd like to show you that you may have…the wrong impression."_

"Nate? Hey!" She shook his shoulder, pulled back to look at him, and choked on a scream.

A hole. There was a hole in Nate's head. Dead center of his temple, gaping back at her. His skin had gone pale, tinted blue in the scant moonlight.

"No, no, no!" She cried out, shaking him, desperate to rouse him. "Nate! Nate, please!"

He didn't respond. It was already too late.

 _"_ _This is the reality of the Institute. This place, these people, the work we do."_

Sloan cradled his face in her hands, her own fingers turning blue. "Nate! Nate!"

His eyes, his eyes. Staring blankly back at her.

Lifeless.

 _"_ _I am Shaun. I am your son."_

The word exploded from her chest as she shrieked, "NO!"

Sloan was startled awake by the sound of her own strangled cry as her eyes snapped open in the darkness. She pushed herself up, gasping, her face an amalgamation of sweat and tears. Her first instinct was the grope the spot beside her for the familiar form of her husband. But when her hand swept across the hard wooden floor and felt nobody there, reality came rushing back in an instant.

A dream.

She let out a long breath, willing the image of Nate's haunting, blue face out of her mind.

It had been a dream.

More of a nightmare, really. A cruel mashup of the sad existence she'd been leading.

Sloan slid up against the wall behind her, folding her legs tight against her chest and wiping her damp cheeks with the back of a hand. She hadn't intended to fall asleep, though it seemed exhaustion had gotten the better of her. Whenever she slept, she always dreamt of him. Of losing him, and everything they'd had together. Sometimes she was trapped in the cryo pod, helpless to do anything but watch while Kellogg shot him over and over again. Other times, as in the dream she'd just woken from, she and Nate would be going about a perfectly normal day and then he would suddenly still, going blue and cold. Always Sloan would wake up in a panic, screaming or crying or both.

Needless to say, sleep was a luxury that she didn't often afford herself, and the prospects didn't look much better now that her subconscious had decided to add Shaun to the list of tragedies that haunted her dormant hours.

Well, why the hell not? Doom and gloom had been hosting a happening party inside her head since the moment she'd been released from her icy prison anyway. They'd been inviting all their friends and making a mess of her mind; once-perfect pictures now graffitied and tarnished, cabinets in disarray, compartments emptied and their contents strewn all over every room. And they were all loud, with sharp and insistent voices, each of them trying to tell their stories at once. She could tell them to keep it down, to muffle their music and silence their shouts, but the noise only stopped for a little while. Every time a new incident welcomed more party-goers, the cacophony in her head began anew.

And there she was, sitting alone in the dark, armed with nothing to combat them.

She'd left Sanctuary behind, wanting to escape and find some sort of respite on her own—away from the place that only brought her bitterness and hard memories, and the people who would never be able to understand why she'd done what she had. The house had smoldered for hours afterward; Sloan had seen black smoke wafting into the moonlit clouds when she looked back from Concord, where she'd stopped to find a safe spot to tuck herself away. By morning it had finally dissipated, as she'd observed from a thin slat in the wall of the boarded-up house she had slipped into.

It was only supposed to have been a temporary stop for the night, but by the time morning came she hadn't been able to dredge up the will to get herself moving.

One day of solitude soon became three.

Frankly, time had passed in a blur. She spent some midnight hours wandering the desolate streets, often straying out into the open and practically daring any potential enemies to attack her, but the majority of her time was spent huddled inside that little hole in the wall. She convinced herself that she just needed to think, just needed to sleep or at least rest a little…though by the third day, she hadn't really accomplished any of that.

Sloan shut her eyes tightly, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against her knees. Before she could think to stop herself, her thoughts had settled on Nate once again. She pictured his face in her mind, recalled the sound of his voice. The way he'd laugh without reservation, the lopsided grin he used to give her whenever he teased her, the way his eyes would light up anytime he had the chance to discuss something he was passionate about.

It was so hard to believe that he was gone.

She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled. Her chest felt as if it were being slowly crushed, like she was suffocating. Her hands balled into fists and she was desperately willing herself to stop thinking about him, stop feeling, just _stop,_ when all of a sudden her ears picked up the sound of people approaching.

The voices were far-off at first but gradually drew closer, and Sloan wasn't in the mood to pay them any mind, but the sound of a child's alarmed cry broke through her haze of grief just then.

"—said stop! Just let me go! I already—"

A gruff voice barked a response that Sloan couldn't quite make out. She lifted her head, not making a sound herself as she listened closely.

"—better not be bullshitting us, boy!" Came a woman's sharp threat.

They were drawing nearer now, and Sloan could hear some scuffling of shoes in the distance. She scooted closer to the window, peering through the slats as three individuals she could only assume were raiders came into view, prodding a young boy along before them.

The boy in question was obviously trying to be brave, but his fear was nearly palpable as he attempted to reason with them. "You said if I told you where the safe is, then you'd let me go!" His voice sounded raw, as if he'd been shouting for a long time. And there was something else that struck Sloan as odd about him, but she couldn't quite tell what it was from where she was watching.

"Yeah, yeah. I tell a lot of people a lot of things," the same woman replied with a caustic laugh.

"What're you gonna do, cry about it? Ya little shit," sneered the male raider. "Can freaks even cry? I'm curious! Let's stab him a little and find out."

"Jesus, Benji, keep your fucking panties on! We still need him," another woman snapped back, poking the boy with the barrel of his shotgun and snickering when the child whimpered. "Once we get the chem stash, you can blow his brains out for all I care."

Sloan observed the group while they paraded their hostage down the street, clearly unconcerned about tact. Probably high as a bunch of kites, too, judging by the way one of them was staggering along unsteadily.

And by either habit or instinct, her mind was already formulating a plan of action, quickly figuring out the best way to proceed. If she confronted the raiders then they would likely harm or kill the boy, so it would be better to solve the problem from a distance. The three raiders would be easy enough to pick off from her current position so long as she didn't leave them enough time to react. She'd need to act fast, though; the group wouldn't stay in her view for much longer.

Gripping the Deliverer in her hands, Sloan crouched by the slatted window and peered into the sight. _Take out the female lagging behind first,_ she decided. _Then the man with the shotgun. The woman holding the child is unarmed—leave her for last._

Letting out a slow breath, Sloan took aim at the straggler and squeezed the trigger. None of the targets heard the muffled shot, but the other two turned at the sound of their companion hitting the ground. The male raider immediately aimed his shotgun in a random direction, firing a couple of shots and drowning out the sound of Sloan's second bullet before it found a new home between his eyes.

By then, the leader was reaching into her back pocket and thrusting her hostage in front of her as a shield. Fortunately for the boy, he wasn't quite tall enough to protect the woman's upper body and just as his frightened eyes caught sight of a flash of metal in her hand, Sloan's final shot dropped her.

It had all happened in a matter of seconds, and then it was over. The boy gasped, bewildered as he stepped away from his lifeless captors and frantically searched the shadows for whatever had killed them.

"D-don't hurt me!" He cried out, his hands uselessly shielding his face. "I got a safe full of caps and chems and stuff, y-you can have all of it!"

Sloan was silent for a moment, watching him in the faint dawn light. A part of her had considered remaining silent and waiting until he scampered off, but…hell, he was just a kid. Most likely lost and confused. He couldn't have been older than eight or nine. Those raiders had captured him from _who even knew_ where and she couldn't just leave him alone.

So she sighed, holstering her weapon. "I'm not going to hurt you," she called out, watching the boy flinch at the sudden sound of her voice. "It's okay. You're safe now…alright?"

He remained motionless, staring in the direction her voice had come from as if trying to decide whether or not he could truly believe her.

"I'm coming out," she continued, keeping her voice calm and assuring, "Don't be afraid." She slowly ducked through the window of the boarded-up home and stepped out onto the street, her hands held up in a peaceful gesture. "See? It's okay. I'm a friend."

The boy turned his dark eyes upon her, and it was then that she realized why something about him had struck her odd—he was a ghoul. As she approached him she noted his shriveled, leathery skin and the small hollowing where his nose had once been. A faded cap covered his withered, bald head. In her surprised state, she had to remind herself not to stare.

He contemplated her for a moment before giving a nod, still watching her warily.

Sloan came closer, and lowered her hands when she saw the boy visibly relax. "Are you hurt?" The boy shook his head, and Sloan asked, "What's your name?"

"Jeffrey," he answered after a moment. "They…they said they would hurt my grandma if I didn't take them to my family's treasure. I…I just want to go home," he said, his voice wavering a little as he stared at the crumbling asphalt beneath his feet.

"Okay." She nodded, bending to his eye level. "Don't worry, kid. I'm going to make sure you get there," she heard herself say automatically, and suddenly her own problems were set aside. "Where are you from?"

"Goodneighbor."

"Yeah? Well, you're in luck. I was just about to head that way myself." It wasn't a lie, exactly…she _had_ intended to travel toward that direction. Eventually, anyway. She rose to her full height, gently patting his shoulder. "Come on, Jeffrey. Let's get you back to Goodneighbor."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deacon was supposed to return in this chapter, but things got so long that I had to cut it in half. Next one for sure, though! I miss that nerd!


	13. If You Believe Anything

**DECEMBER 16, 2287**

 

The trip toward the town was rather quiet and thankfully uneventful for the most part. Jeffrey didn't talk much, aside from a question or two every now and then, although his presence and the task of protecting him was enough to keep Sloan focused and alert.

Jeffrey told her he'd been scavenging just outside of Goodneighbor's walls when he was approached by a gang of raiders and abducted shortly afterward. They'd been watching him for a while, he said. During the trip across the Commonwealth, they group had come across a pack of feral ghouls at an abandoned train station, and Jeffrey had gotten the idea of attracting their attention in hopes that they'd pick off all the raiders. A few had been killed by the ghouls, but the remaining three managed to shoot their way out, and Jeffrey had been certain they knew what he'd done. He told Sloan he was sure they would have killed him regardless of what happened. He was right, she thought, while instead patting his head and assuring him that everything was going to be fine.

Truthfully, she found herself a bit fascinated by the boy. She'd seen her share of ghouls by then, of course, but she'd never encountered one so young. Ghouls lived for a very long time, but most of them were already well into adulthood or at least fully mature. Jeffrey would always be a child, always possess a juvenile's mentality no matter how many years of experience he could boast. There was something very profound, almost tragic, in that.

Soon enough, they were walking through Goodneighbor's front door. Jeffrey's smile was full of relief and childlike glee as he grabbed the sleeve of Sloan's jacket and urged her toward the home he shared with his grandmother. She was also a ghoul, as it turned out, although she later revealed to Sloan over a couple of ice-cold Nuka Colas that she and the boy shared no blood connection; she'd taken him in a couple of years after the bombs had dropped, having no living family members of her own, and the two had been together ever since.

After chatting a while with Jeffrey and his grandmother, Sloan was finally able to use the darkening sky as a reason to excuse herself, citing that she had a bit more traveling to do. It wasn't as though she didn't like them; they were nice people and made for good company, and besides that, Jeffrey's grandmother was a great cook. Still, she began to feel guilty for spending time with this family when there were others out there who were relying on her. Ready or not, she had already traveled this far. What else was there to do now? She knew she couldn't put it off for much longer; she had to return to the Railroad headquarters eventually. She had to face them all. Surely they were wondering what had happened to her and what sorts of secrets she'd uncovered. More than that, they deserved to know. They had every right. In fact, if she didn't go back soon, they would undoubtedly begin to suspect she had double-crossed them.

Sloan decided to find somewhere to sit down and contemplate further, and a little while later, that place turned out to be a rickety bar stool down in the Third Rail.

It wasn't the best choice as far as soul-searching settings went, though she supposed she'd been drawn to the place by the heavy aura of gloom permeating it. All around her, people were complaining and commiserating. One man's wife was cheating on him with his best friend. A woman had just been dumped by her boyfriend and was bragging loudly about the petty revenge she'd been plotting. Someone else was whining about a bad deal they shouldn't have even made to begin with.

Was _everyone_ in this town fucking miserable?

The stool beside her squeaked in protest as someone's weight was set upon it, a contented sigh following the action.

"Well, well," came a familiar gravelly voice. "What have we here?"

Sloan glanced up, recognizing the man's faded red frock immediately. "Oh. Hey, Hancock." She gave the Mayor a short nod in acknowledgement, meeting his dark eyes briefly before returning her gaze to the counter top and pretending to be occupied with deciphering every marking scratched into its surface.

"Lookin' like you've had a rough go of it," he remarked, noting her disheveled appearance. "And that's me being gentle."

She snorted softly, trying to at least fake some amusement. "Yeah, well…it's been a hell of a week."

"No kidding. Ain't seen you around here in a while, sister. Got some more business in Goodneighbor?" He tilted his head to give Whitechapel Charlie a nod. "The usual, Chuck, if you don't mind."

The robot cheerfully replied, "Of course, Mayor Hancock. Coming right up!"

Sloan answered his question with a shrug. "I guess you could say that."

Hancock chuckled, a smirk stretching his withered mouth. "Yeah, I heard about what you did for little Jeffrey. Savin' him from those raider shit-stains and bringing him all the way back here," he drawled, catching the drink that Charlie slid his way. "Perfect example of what Goodneighbor's all about. Ain't too many people who'd stick their neck out like that for a ghoul."

"He's just a kid," she explained simply. "I wasn't going to leave him to die."

"You say that as if the world's full of people who think the same way, but it ain't. Truth is, it's chock full of folks who are only lookin' out for number one." His eyes narrowed a bit in thought and he tipped his bottle toward her. "You're a real oddball, you know that?"

She huffed through her nose. "Yeah, I've heard that once or twice."

"So," he continued after a large swig from the bottle, "you got any plans to stick around for a while?"

Sloan felt herself falter, and her answer sounded uncertain. "I was just passing through. I…actually have some things I still need to take care of. People I need to see." She sighed heavily and muttered, "Just trying to work up to it."

Hancock reached up under his tricorn hat to scratch at his head. "Well, for what it's worth, you don't seem the type to turn tail when things get tough. You'll figure it out. Whatever's got you all wound up, it ain't worth drowning in a place like this. I always figure it's best to look a problem in the face and tell it to go fuck itself."

"Did…" She paused and squinted back at him. "Did you just give me advice?"

"Not sure, I blacked out for a second." Hancock chuckled at his joke, and then shrugged. "Hey, doling out nuggets of wisdom kind of goes hand-in-hand with being mayor. Soak it up while you can."

Sloan gave him her best wry smile, although he had made a good point. The longer she dragged this out, the more difficult it was going to be. She nodded slowly. "Yeah. You're not half-bad at it, you know. If not a _little_ unorthodox."

That deliberate understatement was met with a gruff laugh. "Heh. See, this is why I like you. Tellin' it how it is. Look, I still got no idea where you came from but, from what I hear, you're doin' a lot to help out some good people and bringin' the hurt to the ones who have it coming." He took a long drink from the mug in his hand. "Hell, sometimes I think I should be doing the same. Wouldn't want to go all soft, or forget about what really matters, ya feel me?"

"Yeah," she murmured, propping her chin up with a fist. "Well, leading by example has been a pretty effective method in the past. And significantly less douche-y than the other option."

Hancock drained the rest of his glass and set it back onto the counter. "Damn straight." He glanced over to the corner of the room upon hearing a couple of people call out to him. Sloan followed his gaze for a moment, catching site of several men and women gathered around a table, presumably for a game of poker. Hancock looked back and caught her eye. "Looks like they're callin' me out. You down?"

She gave him a halfhearted smile. "I'm good, thanks. Maybe another time."

He nodded. "Suit yourself, sister." Rising to his feet, he gave her one last look over his shoulder. "Listen, I was serious about gettin' outta here for a bit. You ever need a good-looking ghoul to watch your back, you just let me know."

"I will, Hancock," she said after a moment. "And…thanks."

Watching him saunter off, she couldn't help but think over what he'd said to her. Hell, if all else failed then at least she could probably make a living as some kind of altruistic wanderer. It seemed as though there weren't enough of those in the Commonwealth, because everyone always needed help with one thing or another.

Something was set down onto the counter in front of her just then, and Sloan looked up to see Whitechapel Charlie sliding a bottle of beer her way.

"Seems you got yourself an admirer," the robot said when she raised an eyebrow in question. "Guy in the back. Says his name's Diego."

That name caused a peculiar blend of relief and dread to bloom within her chest. Turning her head in the direction that the bartender had pointed out, Sloan saw him sitting on one of the tattered sofas in the dim lighting. Black vest, white button-down shirt, a faded fedora she hadn't seen before…his Goodneighbor disguise, she supposed. Tinted sunglasses remained a part of the ensemble as always, obscuring his eyes from view, although he didn't appear to be looking her way.

Of all the people in the Commonwealth with whom she'd been eager to reunite, Deacon was both first and last on that list. As her partner, and someone she'd grown to think of as a friend, he was someone she felt that she could rely on; someone whose words could bring her comfort even while not physically present. On the other hand, Deacon knew more about her personal life than anyone else in the Commonwealth. He knew about Shaun's kidnapping and the Institute's involvement, and what's more, he would know immediately that something had gone horribly wrong. There would be no use in lying or covering it up, and certainly no avoiding the subject. The less she said about it, the more suspicious he would become.

Best thing to do now would be to get the reunion over with. Besides, if she tried to leave, she was pretty sure that he'd just sneak out after her anyway.

Gripping the beer bottle by the neck, Sloan slid off the bar stool and made her way across the room, trying not to appear reluctant. Deacon made no move to acknowledge her presence until she was practically standing right in front of him, though she knew he'd been watching her the entire time.

She sank slowly onto the sofa's empty seat, her eyes avoiding him.

"How long have you been following me?" She asked after a short stretch of silence.

"Me, following you? Nah, I just happened to be passing through. You know, catching up on the latest gossip and all that."

So that was how it was going to be.

"Oh yeah? I've been away for a while. Maybe you could fill me in."

He chuckled, beer bottle raised to his lips. "Well, word on the street is, someone actually managed to get inside the Institute… _and_ made it back out in one piece. Crazy, right? All her buddies were convinced she was a goner, I mean, what with that machine just _blowing up_ right after she disintegrated. Should've seen her partner— _cried himself to sleep_ that night. True story."

She felt a swell of guilt as she took that in, and when she spoke again her tone had softened. "You all thought I _died?_ "

Deacon shrugged, maintaining his air of nonchalance. "Like I said—the machine blew up. Whenever that happens, people tend to think the worst."

Sloan's brow furrowed. "I…I had no idea." She felt herself at a loss for words. There was so much to explain and she wasn't sure where to begin, though she did know that the Third Rail was not the place she'd imagined having the impending discussion. She cleared her throat softly. "Look, I know I owe you an explanation. Can we go somewhere else and talk?"

He turned his head slightly to look at her. "Sure thing. I know just the place."

 

oOo

 

The weathered door creaked open and Deacon slid the key into his pocket, gesturing Sloan to enter first. She shuffled inside without a word, her eyes scanning the dusty room and the decidedly dilapidated furniture it offered. One couldn't expect much more in terms of luxury within the Commonwealth, but even so, the Hotel Rexford felt like more of a home to her than the Institute ever could.

A silence had befallen the two of them during the walk up the stairs. Her stomach was in knots and her hands felt clammy as she sat down upon the stained mattress and heaved a sigh, trying to wrangle the thoughts that were flying through her head in all directions.

Where to begin? How did one break this kind of news? Especially when this particular news had been so difficult to accept in the first place? She dreaded having to admit it aloud.

Deacon parked himself onto the arm of a once-plush chair nearby. "So," he began in his usual flippant tone after a moment, "what do you think we should do tonight? Tell scary stories? Paint each others' nails? Or would you rather do each others' hair? Because I have to warn you, I don't have much to work with."

Sloan glanced up at him, eyebrows raised as she returned the banter with surprising ease. " _What?_ You mean you've been wearing a _wig?"_

"This whole time." He chuckled and held up a hand. "I know, I know. 'When will this vicious cycle of lies end?'"

She exhaled a short laugh, if not a bit half-hearted. Deacon had a knack for breaking the ice, and she had to appreciate his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. That was helpful. He didn't push her to talk, either, and a long silence passed while they simply sat there together and existed in the same space. She'd missed that. Just to have a friend nearby was comforting in itself, especially in a world she could scarcely recognize in which she often felt utterly alone.

Sloan hadn't realized until that moment just how much she'd come to value their companionship.

Deacon lit a cigarette after a few minutes, and Sloan caught the scent wafting past her nose. She'd never bothered to complain when he smoked; there was never any point. In these times, one was far more likely to die of pretty much anything but lung cancer from second-hand smoke. Once, she had made an offhand remark about that, to which he'd insisted that he was immune to such things due to being a ghoul who had undergone a complete physical reconstruction. Yet another fabrication, the likes of which she'd come to expect from him.

She watched the smoke curl up toward the ceiling and eventually dissipate. Her mouth opened and then closed several times, no sound escaping. Finally, in a hushed tone, she said, "You were right. I _did_ make it into the Institute. And I…" She paused, finding that her mouth had suddenly gone dry. "I found him."

Deacon's gaze had settled on her face. "You mean Shaun," he deduced. Having picked up on the signals in her voice and body language, he continued, "Judging by the dark cloud that's been hovering over your head this whole time, I'm going to hazard a guess that things didn't go over well."

Sloan exhaled slowly, choosing not to address his comment as she continued, "You know...all this time, I kept telling myself that all I had to do was find him. I'd find my son, kick down the Institute's doors, beat the shit out of whoever took him from me, and then we'd just...we'd get as far away from them as possible. I never thought about what we'd do after that. I'd…have my boy back, you know? So no matter how much the world sucked, at least we'd have each other. That would've been enough. That…isn't that...?" She exhaled a bitter laugh. "That's so stupid..."

There was a short pause. "Well, that _does_ fall into the category of 'sunshine and rainbows,'" he admitted, obviously choosing his words carefully to avoid shutting her down. "When the Institute is involved, there's rarely a happy ending…but I've been surprised before."

She felt herself wilt, knowing he was only trying to soften the blow. "I knew...in the back of my mind, I always knew that he might not be the little boy that I thought he'd be. That it was a strong possibility..." She swallowed, feeling her stomach tying itself into knots. "But this..."

And she told him. Despite how much she'd been dreading it, once she started talking the words began flooding out like a dam had just burst. Sloan recounted how her arrival had been anticipated by their enemy. The voice on the intercom luring her down below. The boy behind the glass who had turned out to be a synth. The old man who called himself 'Father' greeting her personally. Not one detail was withheld, either for the sake of being forthright or because the fact that actually having someone to talk to about the entire experience was surprisingly cathartic.

Cathartic, but definitely no picnic. She felt as though she might vomit as she told Deacon that the leader of the Institute whom they were all fighting so hard to oppose had turned out to be none other than the son she had been searching for. Her own son, _her_ Shaun, who so strongly believed in what he and his scientists were doing down there in their underground facility. Her child, who had grown up to be a man who saw nothing wrong with experimenting on living people, who saw synths as nothing more than machines to be controlled and disposed of when deemed necessary.

Sloan paused as she finished describing her grim three-day operation underground, willing the tightness in her throat to disappear. "And now…I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I have all these…commitments, and…I don't know." Her hands balled into fists in her lap and she repeated, "I really just _don't know…_ "

"Yeah," Deacon replied after a few beats, his expression unreadable behind the tinted sunglasses. He sat back a little, staring up at the corner of the ceiling as he uttered, "Totally understandable."

If he wanted to ask her about her next course of action, he made no indication of doing so. He didn't have to. Sloan knew he was probably thinking it; wondering if she would choose the Institute over the Railroad. Shaun was her son, after all. It would make sense, in a way, wouldn't it? She'd known Deacon and the others for less than a month. Despite all the time they had spent together as partners, traveling the Commonwealth together...he was surely asking himself if vouching for her had been a smart move after all.

A short silence passed before he exhaled audibly and carefully asked, "Are you thinking Shaun might be a lost cause?"

Sloan couldn't tell if he was asking her that because he'd already formulated his own opinion on the matter, or because he genuinely wasn't sure what to make of it. She found herself shrugging helplessly. "I don't want to think that, but…part of me does. I can't just give up on him, though. I mean, it's not like I really tried to change his mind. That would've looked too suspicious and I need him to trust me." A miserable sigh escaped her lips and she briefly let her head fall into her hands. "I can't believe I just said that. I can't believe this is even _happening._ This is a fucking nightmare…"

"Hey, listen," Deacon said, trying to catch her attention as she'd been staring hard at the floor with glassy eyes, "we'll figure this one out. It's not over yet." When she refused to look up or respond, he stood up, hesitated for a moment and then took several steps toward the bed where she sat. He hovered there a moment, watching her behind shielded eyes, before he reached out to clap a hand down onto the ball of her shoulder. "Look, you don't have to make any hard decisions right now."

"But Desdemona and the others will—"

"Forget that," he insisted, plopping down beside her, his hand sliding off her shoulder in the process. "We don't have to tell Dez a damn thing about Shaun. Tell her about Patriot and, ten to one, she won't ask about anything else. And if I'm remembering right, they don't even know you have a son anyway."

Sloan raised her eyebrows just slightly. "You didn't tell them about that?"

He returned the look with a slight smirk. "Hey, I may be a liar, but I'm no snitch."

She huffed softly, pleasantly surprised that he had put her personal discretion above fully disclosing the information to the rest of the organization. Not that she'd expected him to report all the things she'd told him in confidence to Desdemona, exactly, although considering the fact that gathering intel was his job in the Railroad, she wouldn't have been entirely shocked if he had.

"Well," she said, meeting his eyes as best she could, "I appreciate the secrecy."

"It _is_ kind of what I do best. Not the first doozy I've kept under wraps. You wouldn't _believe_ the dirt I have on some of the other agents," he added with a chuckle.

She looked up at him, the corners of her lips turning slightly upward. "I'm glad you followed me. I..." The words 'I missed you' were on the tip of her tongue, but she wasn't entirely certain how he'd take being told that his imaginary presence in the Institute had been a big part of what got her through the nightmarish experience, so instead she shrugged one shoulder and said, "I might've just gone and found a new hole to crawl into if you hadn't. Sure as hell was debating it, to be honest."

"Ah. I wondered what that grungy, 'haven't slept in days' look was all about," he remarked. "Yeah, and I hate to break it to you, but you also really kind of reek." He waved a hand in front of his nose for effect.

A soft laugh bubbled up from her chest, more out of relief than anything else. Not because he'd just confirmed that she smelled like three-day old sweat, but because for the first time since returning to the surface, things felt normal _._ And they _weren't_ normal, not by any stretch of imagination. Everything was fucked up and awful. The world had gone to shit and taken everyone and everything she'd ever known and loved along with it. But somewhere along the way, through the bullets and the bloodshed, her life had developed a brand new version of 'normal'; a version that included Deacon with his neverending witticisms and penchant for stretching the truth. That, of course, was expected. What she hadn't expected to realize was how much more comfortable she felt with him around, compared to how lost and alone she'd felt in the Institute. He made her feel more like herself. He made it easier.

He had no idea, she was sure. And Sloan didn't know how to express her appreciation for his friendship—assuming he even returned the sentiment, anyway—so in a tentative motion, she leaned in closer, letting her head gently drop to his shoulder with a sigh.

Deacon froze at the unexpected contact, and she felt his shoulder tense beneath her cheek. He opened his mouth, words catching in his throat before he finally managed to produce a sound of disgust a moment later. "Eww, at least take a bath first, boss," he joked, although this time she detected a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Still, despite his obvious discomfort, he made no attempt to pull away from her. He just let her lean on him. And damn, she'd needed this. A familiar face. A friend. Just a few days ago she'd been sitting alone in the dark, numb and disconnected. Spirit squashed and hopes dashed. Things didn't look a whole hell of a lot better from this angle, either, but there was certainly something to be said for not having to suffer through it alone.

After a minute or two, Deacon cleared his throat, indicating he wanted her attention.

"So, uh…being serious for a second...I can't pretend I have any fucking clue what's going on in your head right now. And I know I'm full of shit half the time—hell, almost _all_ of the time—but I want…" He trailed off, starting anew a second later, "Look, if you believe anything, believe this: I'm in your corner. Always have been."

Sloan remained silent as she let those words sink in. _Always have been._ She knew that. Right from the start, he'd had her back. He'd taken a chance on her, helped her to win over Desdemona and had taken it upon himself to show her the ropes in the organization. In a way, it was thanks to Deacon that she'd even gotten the chance to infiltrate the Institute and discover what had happened to her son. If he hadn't been so willing to accept her, Sloan wasn't really sure who she could have gone to for help. She supposed she could have crawled back to the Brotherhood and tried to make nice with Danse, but that thought left a bad taste in her mouth.

She nodded against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his dusty black vest. "Yeah. I know."

A few seconds passed before she felt his hand hesitantly brush against her arm, then awkwardly settle onto her shoulder after a couple of short pats. He clearly wasn't used to these particular gestures of affection, and under different circumstances she probably would have laughed. She said nothing, though, and for the next several minutes they simply sat together and listened to the muffled din of the other guests in the hotel as their voices drifted in through the cracks in the floorboards.

Deacon finally broke the silence as he remarked, "So I guess selling that old house of yours is a no-go…I mean, what with that huge fire burning it to the ground _oh-so-mysteriously_ a few days ago."

Sloan's mouth pulled into a slight grimace. "Oh… _that…"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah. This chapter took me an eternity to write. I had about five different ideas for how things would go, and I couldn't decide on which one I liked best. In the end, this was the winner. Things aren't going to be all rainbows and unicorns for these two, though...another hurdle is coming in the next chapter and it's going to be a game-changer (a good one, though, promise)! 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone sticking with me thus far! You guys really keep me going, even when writer's block is nipping at my heels!


	14. Technicolor Robot Horses

**DECEMBER 17, 2287**

 

“Hey, everyone! It's Charmer! Charmer's back!”

Upon Drummer Boy's somewhat stunned announcement, there were a few audible gasps from around the room. Several heads snapped toward the doorway, jaws agape, watching as the aforementioned agent descended the steps.

Deacon ushered Charmer inside first, playfully holding out his arms as if to present her to an adoring crowd. He followed close behind, noting how most of the other agents in the room did a double-take, making certain that their eyes hadn't been playing tricks on them.

Desdemona watched the two of them approach from behind the large circular slab of concrete that the agents used as a makeshift war table. “Thank God,” she breathed, looking as if she'd been wrought with tension.

A loud whoop pierced the silence from nearby, and Tinker Tom bounced over to the group from his desk. “See, Dez? I _told you_ the molecular stabilization matrix held!”

“Funny,” she replied dryly, “you didn't _sound_ certain yesterday.” Her eyes fixed onto Charmer's, visibly relieved to see the woman in one piece again. “It is really, _really_ good to see you. Did it work? Did you make it inside the Institute?”

Deacon watched a range of emotions pass through Charmer's eyes while she decided how best to answer the question. Her mouth opened inaudibly as she met the Railroad leader's gaze. He'd assured her the day before that she didn't need to tell Desdemona about her son, nor of his role within the Institute, though he could tell she was still wrestling with her decision.

After a moment, Charmer's gaze hardened and she gave a short nod. “Yeah. It worked,” she answered with all the tonality of her usual confidence. “I've been to the Institute and back again.”

“I almost can't believe it,” Desdemona said with a shake of her head, while Tom continued to celebrate the success of his teleportation device in the background. “And Tom's holotape—did you make contact with Patriot?”

“More than that—I met the guy. Turns out, 'Patriot' is a man named Liam Binet. He had no idea everyone was calling him that,” she added with a chuckle that Deacon recognized immediately as forced.

Well, she was trying. It had only been about a week since what little was left of her world had been ripped apart at the seams—at least that was what he imagined it felt like—yet there she was, holding it together and shoving aside her own grief for the sake of seeing the mission through. He had to hand it to her, Charmer's professionalism was something else.

And just as Deacon had predicted, the moment Desdemona heard the name “Patriot” from Charmer’s mouth, all other questions regarding the Institute were immediately set aside. Had she known that there had been a child involved, Deacon supposed she would have led with that. But since he’d kept his mouth shut about it, Dez was none the wiser and Charmer seemed honestly relieved to have that burden lifted from her back.

He’d never really made it his business to go around spilling personal information about people unless he felt that there was an actual need for it, anyway. Despite the tension resulting from employing that tactic, it had worked out pretty well so far, all things considered. It was just one of the reasons he was so damned good at what he did. It _also_ happened to be one of the reasons he’d been kicked out of the Railroad on a previous occasion.

“We need every scrap of intel you've managed to pick up down there,” Desdemona was saying as the conversation came to a close. “Write up a full report on PAM's terminal. When you're finished, we'll analyze it and then figure out our next step.”

Charmer nodded once again. “Got it,” she said, letting her eyes linger momentarily before turning on her heel and heading toward PAM's station.

Deacon fell into step just behind her, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Ah, Dez. First day back and she's already giving out homework assignments,” he remarked, and then deepened his voice in one of his impersonations. “'Five pages, double-spaced and spell-checked, on my desk by Friday!' That's how they'd say it, right?” He chuckled as she spared him a glance only to roll her eyes at him.

“Five pages is getting off easy. Where did _you_ go to school?” She replied, surprising him with her willingness to return the banter.

Pleasantly, of course—he'd been trying doubly hard to coax some smiles out of her ever since they'd reunited yesterday. He'd figured it was a lost cause, given what she'd just been through, but he felt the need to do what he could to help ease her troubles a bit. It was best for everyone involved. Dissolved the tension in the air and helped keep a handle on things. And, hell, _maybe_ he also thought a smile looked pretty good on her.

“I'm a proud graduate of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology, actually,” he said without missing a beat. “Class of 2267. Sadly, I lost my diploma in an unfortunate laboratory fire.”

Charmer quirked an eyebrow at him. “2267? You couldn't pick a less believable year?”

“Nah, what's unbelievable is that I graduated when I was fourteen. Totally true. You're looking at the Commonwealth's number one child prodigy here.”

He walked with her to PAM's terminal so he could log her into the system, though once she was settled into the chair at the desk, he turned back and left her alone in the room. She didn't need him looming over her shoulder while she revisited her own personal nightmare long enough to record all the pertinent information she'd gathered on their enemy. So he contented himself with kicking around near the doorway, having a bite to eat (that damned Blamco Mac 'n' Cheese he'd been fantasizing about all week tasted just as good as he'd remembered) and trading small talk with a couple of other Railroad agents. Most of them, unsurprisingly, were curious to hear about what else—if anything—Charmer had revealed to him about the Institute. Dodging the truth was nothing new to him; a shrug and a blank look was all the convincing they needed. Then again, nobody _really_ expected honesty from Deacon in the first place.

 

oOo

 

“So…what are we getting up to now, boss?”

There was a slight shrug. “Tom had something for us,” she replied after a short silence.

Deacon recalled seeing her speak with him shortly after having finished writing up her report on PAM’s terminal, though Charmer seemed to lack her usual eagerness in filling her time with busywork (which he honestly couldn’t blame her for, given recent events—hell, if anyone in the world deserved a break at the moment, it was Charmer). Instead, she’d seemed content with hanging around headquarters and shuffling about from room to room. She had been speaking with the other agents, putting together what amounted to a grocery list; things like ammunition and scrap parts that they were in need of for the next time she was out and about.

After a quick conversation with Dr. Carrington, Charmer leaned over a table to jot down some things onto her piece of scrap paper. She had stuffed the list back into her pocket and turned to head back, when something caught her eye and she hesitated.

The blackboard on the wall. Deacon hung back while she took a couple of steps toward it, noting the subtle furrow in her brow as she studied the list of agents written there…and the slash drawn across her own codename. Evidence that Deacon hadn’t been stretching the truth when he’d told her that the Railroad assumed she’d been killed in action.

Her lips pursed as she reached out, two fingers tracing the horizontal chalk line. It began soft and somewhat jagged, as if the one who had drawn it had been hesitant to do so, though toward the end it became thicker and straighter. Bolder. It showed frustration; anger over the fact that yet another life had been extinguished, just as so many others had before her. Charmer’s fingers froze at the middle of their path and then slid away, leaving two white, vertical marks as she stepped backward.

“Guess erasers are hard to come by around here,” she remarked in a hushed tone before glancing back toward Deacon.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, we used to have a bunch of them, actually. But people wouldn’t stop clapping them together and getting chalk dust everywhere. Eventually Carrington got so annoyed that we lost our eraser privileges.”

She exhaled a small laugh and he gave her the barest hint of a smirk, knowing that she hadn’t believed that. Truth was, nobody wanted to erase the names of the fallen. They remained written there on the board, crossed out but not forgotten, serving as a reminder that freedom and justice came with a price.

A steep, lethal price complete with a no-refund policy.

Her name hadn’t been an easy one to cross out. Nobody’s ever was, really. But Charmer had proven that she wasn’t just _anybody_. She was a vital player in this dangerous game…one whose value even _she_ was probably still unaware of. Scratching off her name not only meant the death of a partner, a _friend_ …it meant the death of everything he’d been hoping they could achieve together.

And boy, he’d banked an awful lot on the belief—the _hope_ —that she would turn out to be the piece of the puzzle the Railroad had been missing all those years; that she could do what nobody else had been able to do. Contrary to what she might have thought, he hadn’t actually been joking at all when he’d referred to her as the Railroad’s secret weapon. So much of his time had been spent chasing ghosts and wild theories, and he’d been right about his hunches so far, but there were just _so_ many variables. It was a huge, potentially devastating risk. The kind that he would normally not take, and he wasn’t taking it lightly.

 _“I don’t know if we can trust you,”_ he remembered telling her on the day they officially met, _“but I hope we can.”_

That statement rang true now more than ever. With so many things up in the air, hope was just about all he had to go on. _That_ was uncomfortable. If that had made him nervous before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now that she’d returned from the Institute.

Charmer huffed a sigh, glancing up at him as she slid her hands into her pockets. “So, then…how do you feel about placing one of Tom’s thingamabobs and looting ammunition from raiders in the process?”

Deacon raised one eyebrow and nodded his assent. “Running some errands downtown, eh? I’m game. Just give me a second to go and put my good hair on.”

 

oOo

 

**DECEMBER 22, 2287**

 

The next several days saw the two of them completing several odd tasks that Deacon would have assigned to the category of ‘mundane.’ They placed a MILA for Tinker and then puttered around the downtown ruins in search of scrap material, medical supplies, ammunition and whatever else had been requested.

Deacon wasn’t exactly complaining, but if she’d wanted to take a break then all she had to do was say so. Hey, no judgment from him. He was always game for a lazy day or two. Of course, if he’d learned one particular thing about Charmer during the time they’d spent together, it was the fact that she never admitted when she felt overwhelmed. She would just continue to stubbornly push through until she couldn’t push anymore; until she hit a wall and crumbled. The aftermath of her trip to the Institute was proof enough of that.

It nagged him, that growing concern in the back of his mind. Charmer hadn’t spoken another word about the incident underground since the long talk they’d had about it upon her return. Not that he blamed her, really. He imagined that damned place was probably the last thing she wanted to think about. Still…he couldn’t help wondering what her next move was going to be. Especially considering she didn’t seem too eager to make it. On the contrary, Charmer seemed almost content to pretend as if the entire thing hadn’t happened at all.

_Ah, omniscience. If only that were a thing._

Things between them had a semblance of normalcy now. At least from an outside perspective, anyway. They’d trade quips, cover each other’s backs and slip through the shadows in unison same as always…but something was off.

Something he just couldn’t shake. And if Deacon ever trusted anything at all, it was his own instinct.

He wanted to believe that Charmer wouldn’t have told him about her stint underground to begin with if she’d been planning to turn on the Railroad…but she was _smart_. She knew how to tell people what they wanted to hear. She wasn’t the practiced liar that Deacon was, but she was still pretty damned good at putting up a front. A part of him hated himself a little for distrusting her, but past experiences had taught him exactly what he’d been trying to teach her: _you can’t trust everyone_. Sometimes not even the ones you considered friends. Hell, _especially_ friends, because who had the power to destroy you more? And the fact of the matter was that if Charmer had wanted to set him up, then she was going about it in the exact same way that he would expect; tell your partner the Big Secret so they won’t ever think to doubt your loyalty, and they’d never see the knife coming until it’s already buried in their back.

Deacon had never intended to voice his doubts to her. He’d planned on giving it a little time and keeping a watchful eye on her activities, as he had before they’d met. That way if he discovered her intentions were decent, then hey—no harm, no foul. He’d been very careful not to give anything away, acting the same as he always had around her; joking, bullshitting, and dispensing the occasional word of wisdom.

Looking back, he supposed that was where he’d gone wrong.

He had been hanging back during one of their trips into the city for scrap, citing that he’d cover her back if any raiders showed their ugly mugs, rifle held at the ready. He picked up nothing through the scope, though he knew the area would be clear long before they’d arrived. Glory had seen to that a couple of days before, and yep—there were a few of her calling cards, slumped over against wooden walls painted crimson.

Charmer’s boots scuffed the broken pavement as she slowed to a stop, chancing a glance back at him. She lowered the Deliverer just slightly. “Looks like someone beat us to it,” she remarked, arching one eyebrow at him.

“Damn if that doesn’t put a damper on my day,” he returned, then chuckled, “Oh, hey, alliteration! Gotta love those.”

She stared back at him for about half a second longer than necessary, and then turned on her heel, nodding toward the splintered door of an apartment building nearest them. “Let’s head inside. Maybe something got missed.”

 _Shit, shit, shit._ Red flag. Not good.

But he only nodded in response. “You got it, boss.”

Giving away none of his apprehension, Deacon followed after her as she sauntered toward the door and stopped for a moment before wrenching it open. The rusted hinges groaned in protest. This was so obviously a trap.

 _‘Abort. Abort!’_ Common sense shouted.

Charmer turned to give him a pointed look and, aw, hell, it was already too late anyway. Might as well attempt some damage control. He stepped past her into the dusty stairwell and turned around just in time to see her slam the door shut. She never took her eyes off him, her arm braced against the door as if she expected him to bolt out of there at the first opportunity.

“We have to talk.”

His first instinct was to feign ignorance. “Sure, what do you want to talk about? Is this about all the off-key humming I was doing earlier? Because that’s—”

“It’s not that,” she said, deliberately enunciating each word.

Feeling a bit as though he were the sacrificial lamb before an altar and a hellfire, Deacon prompted her with, “Then what is it?”

“I feel like I wasn’t clear on something,” she began, her eyes practically burning through his shades. “When I told you about what happened…about when I went there, to…to the Institute.” He watched her jaw clench and she was silent for a few beats before she continued, “I want you to understand something, okay? This… _this..._ fucked up situation, it’s almost more than I can handle but I am _trying._ I’m trying to handle it.”

He tilted his head just slightly, conveying confusion. “Yeah, I know that. You don’t have to tell me, boss, I get it. It’s a lot for _anyone_ to handle. Hell, a lot of people wouldn’t be able to get back up after a sucker-punch like that. If you need a breather, I’m totally on board.”

Charmer huffed a caustic laugh. “You know what? Ever since I woke up from cryo sleep, all I could even think about was how my kid was in danger and how _desperately_ I wanted him back. I lived in fear from day to day, just imagining all the awful things he could have been going through. Just knowing that I couldn’t reach him, it _killed_ me. You _don’t_ get it. You don’t.” She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “I thought I was getting him back. I thought I was _saving_ him. And it turns out…I wasn’t. I can’t. He’s a fucking _puppet_ of the Institute, and it might actually be too late. And I’m _trying_ to wrap my head around it, I just…”

He held up a hand to stop her. “Charmer, seriously, you don’t have to—”

“No, I’m pretty sure I do,” came her sharp retort. Her eyes were like daggers in that moment, fierce and impassioned. “See, I just gave you the _mother_ of all reasons to doubt my loyalty, and you’re just going to stand here and act like that didn’t change anything?” She scoffed. “Bullshit!”

Deacon’s voice rose along with hers. “How is it bullshit that I’m choosing to trust you?”

“Because you’re not!” She snapped back. “And I’m not dumb enough to believe you are! Jesus, how about giving me a little more credit here?!” But she clearly hadn’t intended to bite his head off, because she backed off just then and looked away, trying to reel in her sudden aggression. Deacon opened his mouth to retort, and she simply raised a palm to silence him. It was another moment before she spoke again, but when she did, her voice had lost its serrated edge. “Look…I know what you’re thinking. I know you’re worried, because I would be, too. And you’d be right to doubt me. After everything that’s happened, I wouldn’t hold it against you. But for fuck’s sake, Deacon, if you have something to say to me then _say it._ ”

He sighed almost inaudibly. She had him there, and denying it further was pointless, so he relented. “Alright. You got me. Here it is: _your son_ is the leader of the Institute,” he began, watching her face carefully as he spoke the words. “So yeah, that changes things. Maybe it changes _you._ It throws a lot more complications into an already-complicated scheme. You can run the long con, but how long can you run it on your own son? What happens when he asks you to make a choice? Because if you think he won’t, you’re just kidding yourself. So here’s the big question—when push comes to shove, what’ll it be?”

Charmer wilted, the wind clearly taken from her sails as she considered what he’d asked. She visibly swallowed before answering, “I know that. That’s all I’ve been able to think about.”

Deacon nodded, keeping his chin raised, carefully evaluating each word or move that she made. “Of course it is. After everything you’ve done to get him back, can you really just turn against him? It’d make sense on some level. I fully admit that. You _could_ stay with him. You could get back some of that family bonding time you missed out on. Hell, what ties do you really have to the rest of us above ground?”

Charmer had the look of a woman being backed into a corner, and the quirk of her lips told him he ought to be careful where he treaded lest he step over a landmine. “What are you playing at? You want me to say that I suddenly forgive the Institute just because my son happens to be the guy in charge of it?”

Oh, boy. This wasn’t going to go over well, but giving her a bullshit answer wouldn’t either, so he let out a slow breath and carefully replied, “I’m saying opinions can change in an instant once a situation becomes…well, _personal_.”

_Three, two, one…_

“They killed Nate!!” She exploded at him just then, stepping forward with the force of her outburst. “They shot him in the head! Right in front of me! They ripped Shaun out of his arms and murdered him in cold blood! Do you even understand what that’s like? Or are you too damn busy keeping everybody at arms’ length to have ever lost anyone you cared about?!”

Yeah. _That_ hit a nerve. The cue was subtle, but the clench of his jaw gave it away, and the tiniest tick of her eyebrow told him she’d noticed. After the slightest hesitation he replied, “ _Kellogg_ killed Nate. And thanks to you, he’s guarding the gates of hell right about now.”

By then she had to have known that he was pushing her buttons on purpose, but she was already too angry to participate in his devil’s advocate crap. Her eyes burned in anger as she barked back, “Kellogg may have been the fucking mutt who killed my husband, but the Institute was the one holding his leash. I will _never_ forgive them!”

Without giving him a chance to respond, Charmer whirled around swiftly on her heel and wrenched the door open, stalking outside and disappearing into the brisk evening atmosphere.

Deacon reached beneath his sunglasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, slow breath. He didn’t go after her. She obviously needed some time alone, and really, he wasn’t entirely keen on interacting with her at that moment. So he hung back, counting down from ten, collecting his wits…and then he strode through the door and back toward HQ.

 

oOo

 

She approached him much later that night. Long after most of the agents had gone to bed and headquarters was about as quiet as it could possibly get.

Deacon was seated on the broken section of wall that had been knocked down in order to set up a makeshift target range, having a late-night smoke and seriously considering a last minute snack-run (someone had nabbed the last mirelurk cake, and damned if he didn’t have a hankering for one of those about now).

He’d seen her making her way toward him from the corner of his eye, but had pretended not to notice her presence until she softly cleared her throat just behind him.

“Hey…”

Deacon turned his head, acknowledging her with a slight nod. “What’s up?” He asked, speaking around the cigarette dangling from his lips, all casual as if no tension had ever existed between the two of them.

“I, uh…” Charmer sighed and looked away, tucking a rogue lock of hair behind her ear. “Listen, about earlier… I mean, you were an ass,” she said, as though she were stating the most obvious thing in the world, and he was preparing to say whatever he needed to say in order to mend the situation when she surprised him by admitting, “But so was I.”

He blinked behind the sunglasses. “Well, you were a little, uh… _prickly…_ ”

“I know. I wanted your honesty and, _surprisingly_ , I got it. I can’t just…” She trailed off and shook her head. “I have to keep reminding myself to see things from your point of view. To be objective. And it’s hard, after…well, everything. I know as well as anyone that victims aren’t always innocent, and…I guess that’s the hard part—seeing myself as a victim. But I can’t just sit around and feel sorry for myself. And if we’re really going to be a team, then I can’t keep living inside my own head like I have.”

Deacon rose to his feet so that he could face her, flinging the butt of his cigarette into the dirt below. “Hey, I get it. You’ve been through some shit. So you need some time to catch your breath. I mean, granted that’s a luxury we don’t really have—”

“Exactly. That’s part of the problem. And if I’m going to do this, I…honestly, I can’t do it alone. I just can’t. I need you on my side. I need for you to trust me. And that can’t happen unless I’m completely open about all of this.” She paused to take a breath and then continued, “So here it is: what Shaun is doing down there in the Institute makes me _fucking sick._ And whether he’s my son or not, there’s no way in hell I am _ever_ going to be okay with it, much less support it. I don’t forgive them. I won’t condone a thing they’ve done. They—and Shaun—will have to answer for what they’ve done to all those people, synths and humans alike. I don’t know what exactly I’m going to do about my son yet. I just…I don’t know. But what I _do_ know is…” She exhaled a bitter laugh. _“Fuck_ the Institute. Fuck the Institute and the technicolor robot horses they rode in on.”

Deacon felt a smirk tug at the corner of his lips, the undeniable feeling of relief spreading through his chest. “Nice speech, boss,” he said with a nod. “I give it a 9.5 out of 10. But you know, I wasn’t bullshitting when I said I’m in your corner. I know I make it hard to trust me sometimes, but—”

“I do trust you,” Charmer quickly replied, her eyes fixing onto his as best she could manage. “Call it instinct or stupidity, trusting a liar,” she laughed shortly at that, “but I consider myself a pretty good judge of character. And so far? Even though half of what you say is bullshit, you’ve never let me down.”

Okay, _that_ was new. He could count the number of people who had said that to him on one hand—after a couple of amputated fingers, even. Though he typically got reliable results, people were usually very put off by Deacon’s problematic relationship with the truth. And yet there she was, openly declaring with utmost conviction that she did, in fact, trust him. Like that wasn’t even a question or a debate in any way whatsoever.

She really _was_ something else.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat somewhat awkwardly, “hell, of course not. Red Orchard would crumble without some sort of team effort. Besides, it’s hard to find people who will put up with all my off-key show tune medleys.”

Charmer lifted one eyebrow. “Red Orchard?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I suggest that to you? Maybe I just imagined that conversation. Anyway, if we’re a team, we should have some kind of code name, right? Like Red Orchard. Or maybe Code Violet?” He gasped all of a sudden. “Ooh. Or the Death Bunnies. That’ll confuse them.”

She snorted in amusement. “I like that one. Death Bunnies.”

He flashed her a grin. “I’m partial to that, myself. Got a nice ring to it. So…we good?”

Nodding, Charmer held up a closed fist. “Sure. The Death Bunnies are back in action.”

Deacon gently bumped her fist with his own. “Now that’s what I like to hear.” A comfortable silence befell them, until he couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer and asked, “So…was that true about the robot horses?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha omg this was a fun one. I've been looking forward to writing them being pissed at each other. Charmer's going to find out just how low a blow that was in a couple of chapters. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your continued support! I know updates have been sparse lately. April has been a busy month! But I appreciate you guys sticking with me! :) More fun stuff to come!


	15. Faithful Friends

**DECEMBER 25, 2287**

 

Sloan stepped carefully over the crumbled pavement in her path, glancing between the uneven line of battered buildings on either side of the street. “So explain to me why we need to go to Diamond City today?”

“I _did_ tell you,” Deacon replied from just ahead of her. “We’re meeting up with a tourist. Kind of a routine job and, hell, probably won’t be a whole lot of fun, but this particular source has always been pretty reliable when it comes to juicy Institute gossip.”

She made a face at the back of his head. “Yeah, I know what you said. I just don’t see why one of the other agents can’t take care of it instead.”

“Because the source I'm referring to refuses to give her intel to anyone but me,” he said, throwing her a glance from over his shoulder. “And trust me on this—you’re going to want to hear what she has to say.”

“Only _you_ , huh? This wouldn’t happen to be one of _those_ arrangements…? The agent and the CI. Sneaking around, forbidden affairs...? That's a soap opera waiting to happen.”

Deacon snorted. “Aww, don’t be jealous,” he teased. “And hey, who just got done telling me how much she trusts me? We totally had a moment. _Death Bunnies_. Remember?”

Shrugging, she sighed and decided to just go along with it. “Alright.”

It wasn’t as if Sloan doubted the importance of the Railroad’s tourists in any way—on the contrary, she of all people knew how essential a confidential informant could be—but she had already been topside for more than a week and, as much as she dreaded it, she knew that she’d have to go back to the Institute very soon. She would have to check in with Shaun. She was supposed to begin working for them, to prove herself to the rest of the Institute. Shaun seemed to want her to be a part of his life’s work so much that he was apparently able to throw a fair amount of caution to the wind, and as much as she hated thinking it, Sloan couldn’t afford to waste that kind of blind faith.

Deacon picked up on the change in her mood right away. “Hey, don’t sound so bummed out! Tell you what—if you can stick it out with me here, I’ll even buy you an ice cream.”

She scoffed. “I bet you’ve never even _had_ ice cream.”

“Ouch. Now _I’m_ sad, too.”

“Sorry,” Sloan said, flashing him an apologetic smile when he shot her an exaggerated frown. “I just keep thinking…I mean, I have to get to my _part-time job_ soon. If I’m late, I might get _fired_ ,” she grumbled.

“Ah, yes, how could I forget? You know, you’re lucky—I hear the other organizations have some sort of policy against moonlighting,” he teased, slowly his pace slightly and allowing her to fall into step beside him. “You’ll be fine, Charms. Promise. This won’t take long.”

So she relented and they continued the hour-or-so-long trek to Diamond City. It had been somewhere around a month since she’d last set foot inside the shanty town formerly known as Fenway Park. A month since she’d last spoken to Nick Valentine and Piper Wright…both friends of hers who were undoubtedly wondering what had happened to her, and Sloan supposed that despite her current obligations, she at least owed them a brief visit and an explanation after all that they’d done to help her. After dragging her all this way for an errand of his own, she figured Deacon wouldn’t mind taking a short detour for her.

As they drew closer to the entrance, it became apparent that something unusual had overcome the city’s inhabitants. The morning was still fairly new, yet laughter and tinny music could be heard from just within the walls. A man’s voice, presumably belonging to Mayor McDonough, crackled from a loudspeaker although she couldn’t quite make out what was being said.

Bewildered, Sloan glanced sidelong at Deacon, looking to take some sort of cue from him, although he appeared completely unconcerned as they strolled through the gate.

“I always figured dawn was a weird time to start drinking, but then again, a lot has changed in two hundred years,” she remarked, her eyes scanning each of the guards on duty. They merely nodded a greeting to the pair, just as they would on any other day.

Deacon chuckled lightly, picking up on her apprehension. “What wastelander hasn't started their day with a fifth of vodka?" He was still being purposely mysterious, clearly amused by her confusion.

It wasn't until they were making their way down the ramp that Sloan finally understood the peculiar commotion that morning. Her eyes scanned the area, taking in the scenery. Bright lights of every color were strung up here and there in the market, though many of the bulbs remained unlit. Old, war-worn signs and decorations were tacked to nearly each of the shops. A faded, slightly torn banner was stretched across the entrance of the city, its cheerful message written in large, red letters.

_Oh._

Sloan hadn't realized what day it was. She'd been so wrapped up in all these wasteland ventures and her own personal mission that she had stopped keeping track of the days altogether. It wasn't as if she had any particular reason to remember special events anymore, anyway. Actually, she was sort of surprised that the rest of the world still remembered them.

She was so entranced that she didn't hear the guard passing them by until he muttered, “Can you believe today's Christmas? Ho-ho-friggin'-ho.”

“If I have to hear that damn song one more time...” Another grumbled in reply. “I swear, the one Christmas tune to survive the fallout had to be the most annoying thing I ever heard.”

Sloan glanced at Deacon by her side, raising her eyebrows just slightly. “It's Christmas.”

“Yeah! I guess it is! Huh.” He shrugged, doing a terrible job of pretending he hadn't known exactly what they were walking into, which she suspected was an act in itself. “Though you gotta admit, Diamond City looks pretty nice all decked out like this.”

She had returned to gazing around at all the colorful lights and decorations around them, and she had to agree. It _was_ nice. The scene was just missing a couple inches of freshly fallen snow, although she guessed all the radiation from the bombs had no doubt triggered a climate change. If it still snowed at all, it probably came in the form of deadly, radioactive hail. Shame, that. Winter always had been one of her favorite seasons. Aside from all the skiing she and Nate liked to do up north, there was just something uniquely charming about sitting inside on a cold snowy night, hot cup of coffee in one hand and a good book in the other.

“Yeah,” she finally said, having come to a near-halt as they approached the center of the city. She turned around to look at him as he stood there, hands in his pockets and _casually_ watching her, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he hadn't actually needed her help that morning at all.

“Hey, tell you what,” Deacon began, taking a few steps past her before glancing over his shoulder, “why don't you hang around here for a while? I'll go meet up with the tourist on my own, then I'll come find you after.”

She snorted softly in amusement. “What, _now_ you don't want my help? After you dragged me all the way out here?”

But Deacon was already walking away, and she was about to make some smart remark about him just wanting a little private time with his 'special informant' when she happened to notice exactly which shack they'd been stopped in front of.

_Oh, that sneaky bastard. He'd known all along._

 

oOo

 

“Blue!!” Piper couldn’t hold back the barrage of questions that immediately poured from her mouth once Sloan was safely inside her office after the reporter had all but dragged her inside. “How are you? How’ve you been? Were those rumors true? Did you get into the Institute?”

Nick held up a weathered hand as if to quell the onslaught of inquiries. “Alright, easy now, Piper. Let the kid breathe a little.”

“Sorry,” the reporter was quick to say, flashing Sloan a somewhat sheepish grin. “But you know we’ve been worried about you! Would it have killed you to at least let us know things were okay?”

“I know,” Sloan said rather sheepishly. “I'm sorry. Really. A lot's happened, but I should have found time to at least catch you up on some things.” That was an understatement for sure, considering she had seen neither Nick nor Piper since she'd managed to pull a miracle out of her ass and kill that Courser in order to obtain the chip in its head.

Piper's expression softened at the look on Sloan's face. “Hey, don't worry about it. You're here now. So...” She leaned forward, unable to hold her curiosity back as she carefully asked, “did you get in? Did you find your son...?”

“I, uh…” Sloan swallowed, her throat having suddenly gone dry as both Nick and Piper looked at her expectantly… _hopefully_. “It's true that I manged to get into the Institute. And I also found Shaun.”

Piper’s face fell at the utter lack of enthusiasm in her voice. “Oh, no. There’s a ‘but’ coming…”

Sloan sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “Yeah. The mother of all buts. I don't even know how to begin with this...but Shaun isn't in danger like I thought he was. He's...all grown up now. And he's the man in charge of the Institute.”

She paused there, allowing that bomb to detonate and take effect. Immediately Piper's jaw went slack, eyes widening. Nick uttered a strangled noise from the desk he'd been leaning against.

“No...”

“ _What?!!”_ Piper could hardly believe what she'd just heard. She exchanged a quick, confused glance with the detective before fixing her eyes onto Sloan's once more. “Are you...is this... _please_ tell me you're not serious!” But one look at Sloan's stone-faced expression caused her to wilt. “Oh, Blue...oh, no. But how? Didn't you two say that Kellogg had a little boy with him?”

“He did,” Sloan said, “but that boy...he wasn't Shaun.”

Nick tilted his head slightly, perplexed. “According to you, that boy was a dead ringer for Shaun. What exactly went on down there?”

It was no use keeping the truth from them, Sloan realized. They already knew too much. They were too sharp to be placated by a vague, abridged version of the entire experience. These people she'd come to think of as friends, who had each taken risks for her and helped her more than they could ever know, they deserved to hear the full story.

She glanced at each of them in turn. “Shaun _was_ kidnapped by the Institute...but that was sixty years ago, not ten. They knew about Vault 111. Somehow they found out there was a baby inside...a baby who hadn't ever been exposed to the radiation like the rest of the people in the Commonwealth. That's what they needed. A specimen. To...” she swallowed down the sudden wave of nausea, “to further their own goddamned agenda by creating a so-called perfect being.”

Piper's jaw went slack. “No...no way...”

Sloan nodded grimly. “Yeah. The Institute scientists used _my son's_ DNA to make the Gen 3 synths.”

There was a short pause while that doozy sank in.

“God...I'd say I'm shocked, but honestly, this _is_ the Institute we're talking about,” Piper remarked, shaking her head sadly.

“So _that's_ what they meant,” Nick mused quietly. When Sloan met his eyes with a questioning look, he explained, “You said Kellogg called you the 'back-up.' Must be he thought they could use _you_ instead, if...well...” He gestured vaguely, and she knew exactly what he was getting at: i _f Shaun hadn't survived experimentation._

Sloan felt her skin crawl at the thought of such a thing, and worse was the notion that Shaun very likely hadn't been the _first_ infant to undergo such experiments. “Yeah. You're probably right.” She felt a frown tugging at her lips, and had to force herself not to think about how much she wished they _had_ taken her instead. Then Shaun would have had a chance. Maybe he could have grown up together with Nate, and at least they would have had each other.

After a moment, she continued, “They nicknamed him 'Father.' They raised him. _Brainwashed_ him, more like. He doesn't think anything they're doing is wrong. He seriously thinks that the Institute is humanity's best hope for the future. I...I'm sick about it, honestly.”

Piper instinctively reached out to touch Sloan's arm, giving it a light squeeze. “Blue, I'm so sorry. I can't even fathom what that must have been like. This is just unreal.” She traded looks with Nick, shaking her head in disdain. She was obviously angry, but doing her best to hide it. Just how many more lives did the Institute need to destroy before those white-coated psychos were satisfied?

They continued to listen attentively as Sloan went on to describe her experience underground, prompting her with questions every so often. The both of them were properly horrified as she told them what she'd discovered during her time there; mainly concerning the FEV virus, human experiments, and synth production. She made sure to leave out anything to do with Deacon or the Railroad, of course; while she trusted Nick and Piper, she felt that those secrets were not hers to tell.

Sloan also left out the details of what had occurred directly _after_ her return from the underground facility, and simply stated that she'd been taking some extra time to recover and think about her next move (which honestly wasn't too far from the truth, anyway).

“So if Shaun is the so-called 'father' of the Gen 3 synths, doesn't that sort of make you their grandmother?” Piper blurted out before she could stop herself. “Ah...sorry, I'm just honestly curious.”

Sloan huffed a sigh, slight amusement on her face. “I don't really know how that all works. I hadn't asked. I mean, if you really want to get technical, they all _do_ have some of my DNA. It's really weird to think about,” she admitted. She hadn't even considered that, though it definitely made her feel rather uncomfortable to think of all those synthetic, illegitimate grandchildren running around.

“That's a lot of birthday cards,” Piper remarked absently. Nick elbowed her gently, prompting her to apologize again. “Sorry! I'm just...kind of overwhelmed. It's a lot to process.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sloan snorted.

“How are you doing in all this?” Nick asked, a note of concern in his voice.

She shrugged, unsure of how to answer that. “I'm doing okay. I mean, it was a shock, but...the only thing to do now is keep moving forward.” She averted her eyes, feeling his knowing gaze on her. Nick was perceptive, and she probably shouldn't have attempted to bullshit him. After all, the detective had seen her at her very worst. He'd witnessed her reaction to meeting Kellogg. He'd seen her reach her breaking point, and knew what it took to get her there. The conclusion of their operation at Fort Hagan was no doubt still fresh in his mind.

But all he did was nod and accept that response as the only one she was willing to give him. “Just remember, if you need any help, you know where I stand on the matter.”

“I do. And I appreciate that. Thank you, Nick.”

Piper cleared her throat just then. “Yeah, so...inquiring minds want to know: what exactly _are_ you going to do now?”

“I'm going to fight them,” Sloan stated matter-of-factly.

Piper's eyebrows practically met her hairline. “You're going to _fight_ the Institute?”

Sloan nodded slowly. “They destroyed my family. Murdered my husband. Stole my son, in every conceivable way. I'm going to bring them down even if it means marching into there with a warhead strapped to my back.”

“Alright, slow down, killer.” Piper held up her hands for effect. “I'm all for waging war on those deplorable bastards, don't get me wrong. But _please_ tell me you have a better strategy than that. You almost died just fighting that _one_ Courser a month ago. I know I don't have to remind you that the Institute is chock full of those things.”

“She has a point,” Nick agreed. “And I hope you're not thinking about doing this on your own.”

“Don't worry, she won't be,” Piper was quick to interject. “No way in hell am I going to let Blue do that alone. I want in on it, too.”

“Yeah, about that,” Sloan interrupted just before Nick could respond to that claim. “I've been working with the Railroad on this. They're ones who helped me get into the Institute in the first place, so I think they'd be pretty offended if I went and blew it up on my own.”

She hadn't really considered that until the moment the words came out of her mouth, but it was probably true. Sloan wasn't keen on dragging anyone else into this mess than absolutely necessary, wanting to keep the casualties to a minimum. But the Railroad had been fighting against the Institute for decades. She wouldn't be able to leave them out of it no matter how much she wanted to. No matter how personal this was to her, there were so many others here in the Commonwealth who had their own axes to grind when it came to the Institute and their horrific crimes against humanity despite their claim of wanting to protect it.

And, she supposed, Piper and Nick were no different.

So she added, “But if you really want in on this...I promise I'll let you know when I need your help.”

“Good,” Piper said, looking quite satisfied with that answer. “The more we have joining the fight, the better our odds. Then maybe you'll actually come out of this one without a brand new scar for your collection,” she teased, eyeing the small, jagged line above Sloan's eyebrow.

“That one was originally from my trip into the Glowing Sea,” Sloan pointed out. “The Courser fight just split it open all over again.”

Piper rolled her eyes. “Oh, _details, details!_ Whatever. Point is, you nearly died, so don't go getting cocky or anything. You would've been food for the ferals if that Diamond City guard hadn't found you unconscious in the street.”

Sloan sighed, admittedly having no memory whatsoever of that particular bit. “I know, I know. Lucky for me he happened to be in the area, I guess.”

The reporter hummed thoughtfully, tapping her chin with one finger. “Yeah, that's the thing, though... You told me you had just crossed the bridge and passed out not long after. But Diamond City guards don't usually patrol that far outside the city.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I mean, it's certainly not _impossible_...it's just weird.”

Sloan raised an eyebrow. “Is it really? What else do you think happened?”

Clearly glad that she'd asked, Piper began to gesture animatedly. “Okay, so here's the thing: I'm pretty familiar with most of the guards here, considering...well, considering most of Diamond City has threatened to arrest me at one point or another. And this guy was a _complete_ unknown. I've never seen him around before. So I looked into it. I asked around about that mystery guard a couple of days later, and strangely, nobody could tell me a damn thing. A few of the guys thought he could be one of the guards from third shift, so I went to the office and spoke with the head of security. He's the one in charge of hiring all these guys, and even _he_ couldn't tell me anything.”

“Hmm. A mysterious good Samaritan at large,” Nick remarked. “I'll make this a priority.”

Piper gave him a sour look. “Joke all you want, but you can't deny that it's definitely weird. This guy just came and went. It was like trying to track down a ghost!”

Sloan had gone quiet, thinking this over. Parts of that night had been burned into her memory; parts that she remembered and even relived in vivid detail every time she closed her eyes. But none of those flashes included an encounter with someone dressed as a Diamond City guard. Just as Piper had said, she didn’t recall even making it far enough toward the city to have been noticed by someone on patrol.

Then again, the doctor _had_ confirmed that she’d suffered a fairly serious concussion. It made sense that her memories of that incident would be spotty at best. Anything could have happened.

Hell, she was just fortunate that whoever it was had decided to lend a hand. Her life had been saved thanks to that random stranger.

“Well, let me know if you dig up any information on this. I'd like to send this John Doe a fruit basket and a Christmas card,” she said with a wry smile. “And speaking of which...I should probably get going. Since it _is_ a holiday and all, there are a few people I need to check in with...” She held back a groan, realizing there was no way she could put off going back to the Institute that day. What mother would pass up spending Christmas with her child?

And so she bid Nick and Piper farewell, though not before swearing up and down that she would inform them immediately if there were anything at all that they could contribute regarding the Railroad's mission to put an end to the Institute and their nefarious schemes.

She walked out of Piper's office and into the cool winter air, noting how brightly the Christmas lights lit up the night sky. It was truly a sight to behold, even though it was nowhere close to the way the city used to be decorated back before the bombs dropped. She had never imagined that she'd ever miss those obnoxiously decked-out houses in her neighborhood, or all those stupid glowing Santa statues with that full set of reindeer—sleigh full of fake presents included. Every department store would boast one of those. And the Christmas music...oh, how she'd despised hearing those same old-time songs played on repeat everywhere she went.

Funny how something she'd once hated had become something she now cherished.

“You get all your last-minute Christmas shopping done?” A shadowy figure fell into step beside her just then.

Sloan didn't even look up, she was so accustomed to Deacon sneaking up on her. “Oh yeah,” she replied with a smirk. “Had to fight a little girl for the last stuffed Jangles and things got a little dicey.”

He chuckled. “Holidays tend to bring out the _best_ in people. Speaking of which, I totally forgot to tell you about the Railroad's annual Secret Santa. I hear Carrington drew your name.”

Sloan rolled her eyes. “Sure, sure. Must have missed the memo. Guess I can kiss the 'Employee of the Year' nomination goodbye.” She glanced up at him as they headed up the stairs toward the city's gate, and it was then that it hit her.

Just like a ton of bricks. She nearly faltered in her footsteps.

Maybe she hadn't realized it before because of everything going on lately. It just hadn't been very high on her list of priorities. Shaun and the Institute took precedence in her mind, after all. And it had been _such_ a minor detail at the time, in the grand scheme of things, that getting to the bottom of the mystery just hadn't seemed important.

But with just a glance, one of those missing pieces had suddenly clicked into place.

Noticing her pace had slowed, Deacon turned slightly to give her a questioning look. “You good, boss? Someone spike your eggnog?”

Sloan offered a chuckle, and wrenched her eyes away from the Diamond City guard's chest protector that he had donned as a disguise that day. “It's not Christmas unless someone's drunk at dinner,” she managed to retort, despite being completely distracted by her thoughts.

She was right. She had to be.

It couldn't have been anyone else.

_Deacon had saved her life that night._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whaaat, it's a new chapter after all this time!! Yeah, sorry about that giant unexpected hiatus. Life stuff was happening. I had a job that was sucking the life out of me and giving me super amounts of anxiety, so I found a new job. Things are good now. AND I've been replaying Fallout so inspiration for this fic has returned. Which is fantastic because there's still SO much more that I want to do with this story. I'm nowhere near done!
> 
> So thank you so much for those of you who have stuck with me thus far!! And to anyone who is just now joining in. I really, really appreciate your support. I'll try to have the next chapter out sooner next time ;)


	16. Always

**NOVEMBER 18, 2287**

_Fuck._

That one word raced through Sloan’s mind on an endless loop as she dove behind the wall to avoid a spray of laser beams. She hit the floor and rolled to her feet, her eyes darting around on high alert. Shaking hands reloaded the pistol she’d pried from Kellogg’s lifeless hand ten days ago. She only had seconds to do it and then was moving again. Dodging, diving, finding an opening and firing.

_Damn, damn, damn._

Like a ghost, she glided down a flight of stairs. Silent as possible, stifling her breaths. Flashes of lasers followed her.

_How the fuck is he this good?_

Sweat pooled on her forehead. Her heart hammered away in her chest as she racked her brain for a counter-attack. She was in _way_ over her head. She shouldn’t have come alone. But now she had no choice; she had to do this. This was for Shaun.

Every second counted.

The Courser was eerily silent but she knew he was there. She felt his presence in the darkened hall. Her slick hands tightened around the pistol’s grip as she peered around the corner.

 _There._ An opening.

Pivoting on her foot, Sloan braced herself for kickback and fired an entire round into her foe. A geyser of blood and a grunt of pain told her he’d been hit. But it wasn’t enough. The muzzle flashes gave away her position and in an instant she’d lost sight of him. Gritting her teeth, she ducked around the corner, making a dash back toward the stairs ahead. She needed the advantage of higher ground.

Several more shots followed, and she narrowly avoided the beams. Sloan ran back up the stairs like a gazelle, the Courser right behind her. She neared the top when another crackle of energy sounded and pain ripped through her thigh. She fell forward, fingers fumbling for the rail, whirling around with her weapon pointed ahead of her while her free hand managed to dig her last Stimpak from the pouch on her belt and hastily jam it into the injured leg.

Sloan couldn’t see the cloaked Courser, but she could hear his footsteps against the metal of the stairs, quickly drawing nearer. Adrenaline racing, she forced herself to her feet and ran.

She didn’t get far. Something grabbed her shoulder with a bruising strength, hauling her back around. Suddenly pain exploded in her forehead and she was reeling backwards, blindly hitting the floor. Her gun slid across the broken tile, out of her reach.

_Shit._

Blood flowed freely from her split stitches, mingling with the sheen of sweat coating her face. She scrambled to her feet but an unseen force knocked her back down. There was a flash of red and she rolled to the side to avoid it, feeling the heat of the beam as it burned the floor. The second one hit her, searing her side when she was too slow to avoid it. Sloan bit back a pained cry, mustering up the strength to scramble to her feet, bobbing and weaving her way toward the room at the top.

 _The Institute was definitely not fucking around with these Coursers._ How many more of them would she have to fight? What _else_ did the Institute have at its disposal? She had clearly underestimated them. Just this _one_ enemy was nearly more than she could handle.

The fearful voices of the Gunners reached her ears, but she paid them no mind. Sloan slid across the floor, grabbing up the pack she had dropped upon arrival. Reaching inside, her fingers found the spherical objects and swiftly pulled the pins.

She let the pack drop again, but not before grabbing another pistol from inside using a quick sleight of hand as it fell. She ran to the far side of the room, turning to fire a few bullets at her pursuer. If he caught on, she was fresh out of ideas.

_This has to work._

Her heart pounded in her throat as the Courser made a beeline toward her. She was cornered....

Then he stepped over her bag at the exact moment that it exploded.

Sloan ducked, facing the wall as the heat engulfed the room, shrapnel embedding itself into her back from the force of the blast. The Gunners’ screams of pain erupted from across the room. When the flash of light faded, she turned her head to search for her enemy, ready to run in an instant.

As the smoke wafted up toward the ceiling, Sloan squinted down the barrel of her gun. Through the haze, she saw the Courser lying motionless on the floor. He was in several pieces.

Sighing in relief, she let the gun slip through her sweaty fingers. She slid to the floor, bracing herself against the wall. Her entire body began to tremble as the adrenaline continued to pulse through her veins.

 _She did it._ She fucking did it. She’d killed a Courser.

The Gunners in the room had gone quiet in the wake of Sloan’s feat. The sudden silence seemed jarring after the cacophony of the fight moments before.

But she couldn't afford to sit there and rest for long. Dragging herself to her feet, Sloan limped over to the corpse and dropped to one knee beside it. She reached into her pouch and pulled out a knife. Her job wasn’t done yet. She needed that chip inside its head.

One of the Gunners grimaced. “Oh, ugh…you’re not going to…?”

“Jesus! Fucking gross.”

“At least untie us first!”

Sloan ignored them, just as she tried to ignore the hot bile rising in her throat while she dug through brain matter for the chip. Luckily she didn’t have to search for long before she pulled out the cold piece of metal.

 _Fuck._ This thing even looked human from the inside. If she hadn't actually found the small, silver chip, she probably wouldn't have believed that it _wasn't_ actually a human. How was the Institute doing this? Swallowing hard and averting her eyes from the mess in front of her, she stuffed the chip into her pouch and wiped her shaking, bloodied hands off on her ripped jeans. Drawing in several breaths, feeling her head pounding, Sloan stood to her feet.

She almost stumbled right out of the room, but then remembered the girl who was trapped behind the glass window. It wouldn't do to just leave her there.

Sloan met the girl's pleading eyes, swaying slightly on her feet. “Shit. Okay…okay, hang on…”

Wiping a smear of fresh blood from her brow, she went to the console to release the lock on the door. It took her a long moment. Her mind was not working as it should. After a few minutes, the large metal door slid open and allowed the girl to go free.

“Thank you,” the girl said, her eyes genuine as she stepped out into the room. “I don’t know what to say…”

Sloan licked her lips, tasting iron and salt. The lights were too bright all of a sudden. “You don’t have to say anything,” she managed to reply, hoping her voice didn’t betray how weak she suddenly felt.

The girl continued, “My…Institute designation is K1-98. But I prefer ‘Jenny.’ So yes, I’m a synth. If you hadn’t already guessed.”

She had guessed as much, but felt too lightheaded to say so.

“I knew they’d send a Courser. I just didn’t think he’d find me so fast.” Jenny sighed. “I think I would have lost him, too. But then I was captured by these…mercenaries. And all this happened. Thanks again for your help. I’m going to look for supplies before heading out. And before you ask—no, I don’t need any more help.”

That was good, because Sloan wasn’t exactly in the mood or condition to offer it. She concentrated on keeping her breathing steady while Jenny was talking, only able to comprehend the gist of what was said.

“The Commonwealth is unforgiving. I need to make it on my own or I’m dead. Maybe we’ll meet again, under better circumstances. I…hope we do.”

“Good luck,” Sloan mumbled as Jenny bid her farewell and left the room in search of the aforementioned supplies. She supposed it was time that she took her leave as well, and made for the door.

The Gunners protested, demanding that she release them, but Sloan almost didn’t hear them over the ringing in her ears. Let them hang out. She couldn’t care less about a few wastes of space. The chip was in her hand and she needed to think about the next step.

She didn’t recall how she made it the rest of the way out of the building. One moment she was stumbling onto the elevator, and the next she was pushing the front door open and stepping into the wet night air. Her thoughts came in fragments, her vision blurry as she staggered down the street toward the bridge.

_Diamond City._

She just had to make it back to Diamond City. Once there, she could find Nick and everything would be fine. Blood still steadily trickled from the gash on her brow, soaking the side of her face and neck, dripping onto her dirtied flannel shirt. The Stimpak earlier had helped stem the bleeding in her thigh, but Sloan was vaguely aware that her condition was dire and she needed medical treatment immediately.

Her consciousness flickered like a faulty light bulb, dark spots swimming before her eyes as she pressed onward, limping toward her destination on legs that seemed to be moving without her direct input. She couldn't even feel the pain anymore. That probably wasn't a good thing.

She didn’t remember crossing the bridge at all, just the sudden awareness of walking through the city. Shuffling down the street like some kind of feral ghoul. Maybe they would even leave her alone if they thought she were one of them.

And then the ringing in her ears worsened. Her world tilted. A moment later, her body veered sharply to the side before she could regain her footing, and the wall of a crumbling building broke her fall.

Breathing labored, vision going dark, she allowed herself to remain propped against the cold surface for what could have been seconds, minutes, maybe even an hour. It was so hard to tell. The idea of simply remaining there and closing her eyes was all too tempting. Just a little rest...a few minutes longer...

 _No,_ a voice in the back of her mind commanded. _Not yet. Not here._

Somewhere within her muddled thoughts, Sloan was aware that if she fell here, she was as good as dead. She wouldn’t be able to get back up. Raiders would find her, or Super Mutants, or _worse_. The echo of gunshots in the distance only reinforced that notion. It wasn’t safe here. She had to get to the city limits. There was too much at stake. She had come too far, accomplished too much. She couldn't give in now.

_Shaun. Get up for Shaun. He’s out there. He needs you._

Her bloodied hands grasped the broken bricks, shaking arms pushing herself upright with much difficulty.

_Keep moving._

Willing herself forward, Sloan took several unsteady steps. Her breath came in gasps as her entire body began to stutter.

_Don't stop. You can't stop._

Her legs stopped moving before her brain could register what was happening. For a moment she hung in the air, weightless, floating.

And then she was falling. Reaching forward, but falling. Darkness swept her away before she could even feel the impact.

 

oOo

 

** DECEMBER 25, 2287 (PRESENT DAY)  
**

 

“So what kind of present does a person get for their sixty-year-old son, anyway?” Deacon's question brought Sloan's absent mind back to reality as the two of them headed back to HQ. “New cane? Uh, a beard trimmer? Ooh. How about some butterscotch candies? Legend has it that children were once force-fed those suckers by the elderly every Halloween.” When Sloan didn't respond, he glanced to his left, where she'd been walking along beside him. “Hey, I'm just messin'. I bet he'll be totally jazzed with whatever it is you got for him.”

Sloan met his glance and gave him the smallest of smiles. “I got him a scarf, actually. Kind of  a lame present, I know. If he ever asks, I knitted it myself."

"Got it. You're a Grandma in disguise. You _do_ learn fast."

"Funny," she remarked, her nose crinkling slightly.

Deacon shrugged. “Hey, I think he'll love it. You never know. It probably gets pretty drafty down there, what with all those icy, black hearts and cold personalities blowing around.”

That one earned a chuckle from her. “You have _no_ idea.”

She did her best to keep the banter going, mostly to keep him from suspecting that something was going on. That was no simple feat; he was as good at reading people as she was. In some ways, he was better. What he lacked in formal education, he more than made up for in real-life experience, which she suspected could easily double her own. Sloan often found herself thinking that he would have been a great fit in her own line of work, way back when. They made a great team; she wasn't sure that she could have found a better partner even if she'd scoured the Old World for the entire length of her career. And maybe, just _maybe,_ that could be chalked up to pure coincidence.

But what _wasn't_ a coincidence was the fact that she had just happened to bump into the right person at the right time. That was something Sloan had always known. Ever since the day that she'd met him, she knew there had been more to his claim of having kept tabs on her and her exploits, and certainly more to his decision to vouch for her based on what had seemed like sparse intel.

 _“You piqued my interest, so maybe I asked around,”_ he’d told her when she had questioned him the day they’d met. _“Did my homework.”_

She believed that, but even so, there was undoubtedly some big, gaping omission in that statement. Deacon didn't just decide to put faith in people on a whim; he and the Railroad had been burned too many times before to suddenly decide that a total stranger was worthy of such a leap. Sloan hadn't really paid any of that much thought back then, Shaun being her primary concern, but it had always been there in the back of her mind: s _he was special, but why?_

_“If you hadn’t found us, there’s a chance I would’ve found you instead. Thanks for saving me the trip.”_

That was all he'd been willing to divulge on the matter. And Sloan had been willing to accept it, because she, too, was a little bit desperate for allies. But now, particularly with the recent revelation that Deacon had been the one to save her the night she'd collapsed after the fight against a Courser, her mind had taken to parsing through what she _did_ know, trying to dissect every little thing that he'd ever said to her regarding their partnership.

 _“I’m in your corner,”_ he’d told her after she had returned from the Institute. _“Always have been.”_

_Always have been._

She’d believed him then, but until that moment she had simply assumed he’d used the phrase rather loosely. She had never guessed that when he said the word ‘always,’ he’d _literally_ meant always.

Deacon must have felt her eyes on him just then, because he tilted his head ever so slightly in her direction. Sloan immediately averted her gaze, breaking herself from her thoughts and clearing her throat.

“They have cameras, you know," she said, jumping to the first topic that came to mind. "Everywhere.”

He quirked a ginger eyebrow, just visible beneath the dark sunglasses. “What?”

“The SRB. They have a whole wall of screens, just…monitoring the Commonwealth. I saw it during the grand tour.”

Not surprised by this piece of information, Deacon nodded, falling behind her as they approached the Railroad's back entrance. "See? I toldja. Big Brother really _is_ watching."

"Yeah. I'll never feel safe in the shower again."

She led the way into HQ, pushing her suspicions aside for now in favor of playfully debating some of Tom's famous conspiracy theories. Confronting Deacon about his involvement in saving her life that night would be a bad idea. It would accomplish nothing. He was a pathological liar; he would never admit to it in the first place, so broaching the subject too early and without indisputable evidence would potentially close the door on any related discussions in the future.

And if Sloan ever wanted any real, _legitimate_ answers from him, then that was the one door she could not afford to close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe that it has actually been 3 months since my last update. Oops! Know what else? It's almost been a year since I began writing this story! Now THAT'S crazy. What happened to 2016?? It feels like yesterday that I posted the first chapter.
> 
> Anyway, I am still chugging along. Inspiration has been harder to come by lately, but you guys are still leaving some amazing comments and I REALLY appreciate the feedback. It helps more than you know. So yeah, it might take like 9 years to finish this story (which is hopefully a gross exaggeration) but I do intend to see it through. Thanks for sticking with me! :D


	17. Cracks In The Walls

**DECEMBER 25, 2287**

 

“You really don’t need to see me off or anything.”

Deacon shrugged as he followed her down the streets of the dilapidated North End. “Hey, it’s not every day a guy gets to watch his partner dematerialize into billions of particles. And if you drop your wallet on the way out, you’ll be glad I came along.”

“I’m more worried about dropping a kidney,” Sloan remarked with a roll of her eyes. Also, she wasn’t entirely convinced that this method of travel wasn’t giving her seven kinds of cancer each time she utilized it, but hell, it wasn’t as though she had another option.

“According to Carrington, you only need _one_ of those to survive,” Deacon helpfully supplied. “You’re good.”

Sloan managed a soft huff of amusement and then fell silent, causing a companionable silence to settle over the two of them as they trekked onward. They weren’t heading anywhere special, really, just somewhere she deemed far enough from the Old North Church to avoid drawing attention to herself while using the Institute’s relay system.

She didn’t necessarily need to be anywhere in particular in order for it to work, but on the off-chance that the Institute was keeping track of the coordinates she teleported from, Sloan wanted to avoid inadvertently giving away the location of the Railroad’s headquarters. Tinker Tom had very extensively studied the Courser chip that Dr. Li installed in her Pip-Boy and despite his insistence that the Institute could be watching Sloan’s every move on the surface, he’d found nothing to prove it.

Still, one could never be too cautious where the Institute was concerned, and Sloan didn’t mind taking the extra measure here or there if it helped ensure the safety of her allies.

A light nudge against her shoulder brought Sloan out of her thoughts, and when she gave Deacon a questioning glance, he gestured up ahead.

“Ferals,” he said in a low voice, nodding toward a couple of the mindless ghouls shuffling around the outskirts of the North End’s graveyard. He shook his head disapprovingly. “How cliché. I’m almost embarrassed for them.”

Sloan pulled her Deliverer from where it had been secured at her belt, and the two of them slowed their steps to advance in silent unison. “Well, you can give them your condolences while we’re clearing out the area,” she muttered under her breath.

“Ah, poor bastards. I almost feel bad about this. Just look at them, toddling around on their decomposing chicken legs like a bunch of drunken hobos fresh from the bar.”

Sloan rolled her eyes. “Yeah, they’re adorable, especially the way that one there is stuffing its face with some dead raider’s small intestine.”

“Yuck,” he remarked with a grimace, trying not to stare too hard at that particular sight lest his stomach decide to stage a protest in the form of a violent upheaval. Instead, he busied himself with adding up the number of hostiles—six, but he liked to round up just in case there were a few still lying dormant. Still, he liked their odds. “You happen to have any holy water handy? I’ve always wanted to try that on ‘em.”

“No, but you could always try making the sign of the cross and chanting, ‘the power of Christ compels you!’” She quipped back as loudly as she dared while they ducked low and stole closer, staying hidden behind several overturned and long-rusted vehicles. “But seriously, I’d pay to see that.”

He stifled a chuckle. “I _am_ an ordained minister—long story. Point is, it could work.”

Sloan held the pistol at eye-level and scoped out her first target. “Mhm. Well, if one of them starts floating in mid-air all of a sudden, then we’ll phone in Father Deacon.” She squeezed the trigger and in an instant, the feral furthest from the pack dropped to the ground like a sack of bricks.

He had to snigger as he shot down two staggering ghouls before the rest of the group caught on. “That’s awfully redundant. I like it, though, has a nice ring to it.”

An inhuman snarl split the crisp, winter air as one of the ferals picked up on their presence. The remaining three lurched toward the sound of the disturbance, followed by three others who were rudely awakened amid the scuffle. Sloan and Deacon made quick work of them, though, and a few short minutes later the area was littered with freshly fallen feral corpses.

With the cemetery cleared out, Sloan had a somewhat secluded space free of hostiles to hitch a ride on the relay without having to worry about being discovered by either the Institute scientists or any random passerby, who, thanks to the ghouls, would have otherwise given it a wide berth.

She stepped over an area of mangled wrought iron fence, her boots crunching through dry dirt and sparse grass, surveying the broken headstones surrounding her.

There was no more putting it off; she had to go back.

Back to the Institute. Back to the source of her nightmares. Back to the role she would have to play and the people she would perform for. Her stomach churned just thinking about it. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a long breath and exhaling slowly.

“So…you up for a quick séance before you head out?” Came Deacon’s voice from just behind her. “Seems appropriate, considering…”

Sloan felt a smile curling at her lips, his lighthearted humor helping to ground her. “Nah. Left my Ouija board back at headquarters.” After a moment, she glanced pointedly at the Pip-Boy strapped to her left arm. She tried her best to mask the unease in her voice when she spoke again. “Guess it’s about that time…”

And Deacon, bless him, he knew her signals. He clapped a hand on one of her shoulders, giving her a playful shake. “Hey, you got this, Charmer. You know you do. Try not to think about it too much. Go to your happy place. Puppies, rainbows, baby Deathclaws…whatever does it for you. And when you get back, we’ll sit down and have some mirelurk steaks. I’ll even make you my special salsa—old family recipe, passed down from generation to generation over the last two hundred years. Guaranteed to knock your socks off.”

She nodded, suddenly grateful for his presence. “I’m going to hold you to that, Deacon.”

With a nod, he took several steps backward to give her a fair amount of space. She watched him for a prolonged moment before looking down at her Pip-Boy and setting the coordinates to the Institute. Dr. Li had preset those for her already, so she only needed to point and click, essentially.

Inhaling another quiet breath of stale, Commonwealth air, Sloan felt the atmosphere begin to crackle around her and smelled the barest hint of ozone. Her eyes fell upon Deacon during those last few milliseconds, watching him as he watched her.

In the next moment, his image became distorted and her mind went blank.

 

oOo

 

“…so many other things going on lately, it’s been pretty busy down here. Business as usual for the Institute, though. Oh, but don’t let that scare you, it’s really not so bad! There’s no end to our projects, so things never get dull, that’s all.” Rosalind chuckled merrily and then seemed to remember the real reason that she’d stopped Sloan in the middle of the corridor. “Oh, speaking of which—I finally got around to making those adjustments on my prototype, and let me tell you, the firing rate has _much_ improved since last time. I’m sure you’ll be very pleased with it! Whenever you have some time, I’d love for you to drop by my lab and test it out again.”

The bubbly scientist stood there, hands clasped before her and beaming so hard that Sloan simply couldn’t find it in herself to decline.

“Absolutely. I’d be happy to,” she replied after a moment, slightly unnerved by the way the woman was so eagerly anticipating her reaction. “Maybe later? I’m actually on my way to meet with Sh—uh, Father.” She was never really sure how to address him in front of his colleagues.

Rosalind looked slightly abashed. “Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you up. That’s right, you’ve got very important business here and I definitely shouldn’t get in your way.”

Inwardly, Sloan wondered what the hell she could possibly mean by that. Outwardly, she simply smiled and said, “It’s okay. You and I will catch up afterward.”

“Great! I’m looking forward to it.” The brunette took her leave, exiting in the opposite direction with a slight bounce in her step.

Sloan watched her round the corner and then turned back down the corridor toward Shaun’s quarters. Her heart did a small flipflop in anticipation, and her fingers clutched the small, wrapped package in her hand a little bit tighter. She swallowed down a sudden wave of emotion, realizing that this would be the first time she’d ever gotten to spend a holiday with her son. Months ago during the nights when she couldn’t sleep, holed up in some settlement in the wasteland, she’d entertained herself by imagining the way she and Shaun could spend their first Christmas together once she’d gotten him back.

She’d never imagined it would be like _this._

Shaun looked up upon hearing the soft knock on the doorframe, and as Sloan stepped into the room, the white-haired man set down some documents he’d been poring over.

“Ah. Welcome back, Mother. Making yourself at home, I trust?”

Sloan nodded, vaguely wondering why the Institute still bothered with paperwork when they had a wealth of digital technology at their fingertips. “Absolutely. This place is…just…amazing,” she said, making sure to blink in disbelief. “All this crazy technology…I probably could watch the scientists in Robotics make synths all day long.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad to see you taking such an interest.” The chair made a soft squeak of protest as he stood to greet her properly. “How are things on the surface? You had mentioned that there were certain things you needed to take care of, and then you were gone more than a week. Is everything alright?”

She honestly couldn’t tell if he was asking out of concern or suspicion.

“Yes, of course,” she was quick to assure him. “But on that note, there _is_ something I need to discuss with you.”

“Go right ahead,” he prompted, giving her his full attention.

After a brief pause, Sloan cleared her throat softly and began. “All I’ve wanted from Day One is for the two of us to be reunited, you know? And now that we are, I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep it that way. But there are outside factors. I’m sure you’re aware that I didn’t get here all on my own. I had help. Remember, I used to think the Institute was evil. Because of that, I allied myself with quite a few likeminded people. People who are hellbent on destroying this place and everyone in it. If they knew…if they even _suspected_ that I’ve decided to stay here with you…” Sloan trailed off, biting down on her lower lip and letting the silence speak for itself.

Shaun nodded his understanding, his eyes widening just slightly. “I see. I didn’t realize you were in danger, Mother. Please, allow me to assist you. Tell me where these people are and I’ll have a pair of Coursers dispatched to the surface immediately.”

Sloan let one corner of her lips tug upward. “I appreciate the offer, but you don’t need to waste precious resources on this. I’ve got everything under control.” She shrugged, stepping a little closer to him. “Besides, if we act too soon, it’ll just make everything worse. Give me time—eventually I’m sure I can convince them that the Institute means no harm. We want people to believe in our cause, don’t we? Violence won’t achieve that.”

He looked a bit lectured, and after a short pause he nodded his assent. “You’re right, of course.”

Sloan offered him a small grin. “Never too late to dispense some maternal wisdom, is it?”

“I suppose not.”

There was a short silence between the two of them, until Shaun happened to notice the small package she was still holding on to. He looked back at her, curiosity in his blue eyes.

“What is that, may I ask?”

She glanced down at the gift she’d brought for him. “This? Actually, this is for you. It’s a present,” she clarified.

“For me? But…I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Sloan let out a small laugh. “Don’t you know what day it is? Here,” she said, reaching out to offer it to him. “Merry Christmas, Shaun.”

A momentary expression of confusion crossed the elder man’s face. “What…? Christmas…oh. I see,” he said, blinking as he tentatively reached for the wrapped parcel. “I’m sorry Mother, I didn’t even realize… But thank you, that’s very thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome.”

Shaun cleared his throat, looking a little uncomfortable. “I must admit, I have nothing to give you in return. Holidays in the Institute are seen as frivolous and unnecessary distractions, for the most part. In olden days, I would remember their dates and pester my elders with relentless questions and curiosities. But now, I…”

Sloan reached out to him, gently squeezing his arm. “It’s alright, Shaun. I don’t need anything. I just wanted to share something with you. Something that we never got to experience as a family.”

He nodded, a small smile nearly hidden beneath his trim white beard. “I do appreciate that.”

“So go ahead, open it,” she prompted, gesturing toward the gift.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. It’s tradition.”

He relented with a small chuckle. “Alright.”

The gift had not been wrapped in the sort of festive paper that Sloan had eagerly torn apart each year as a child; such a luxury was a thing of the past, of course. Instead, she had made do with the cleanest scrap of cloth she could find and tied it all together with a long strand of twine. Quite ugly in comparison, but it wasn’t as if Shaun would ever know the difference.

She looked on as Shaun carefully untied the twine and then opened up the cloth cover containing his gift, unable to help the feeling of anticipation she felt as she wondered whether or not he would even like it. He pulled out the thin, knit scarf and held it up at eye level, allowing it to unfold to its full length while he looked it over. It was striped with dark blues and rich browns, colors that would be seen as professional and not attract too much attention.

He was silent for a bit longer than Sloan was comfortable with, so after a lengthy pause she said, “I’m not really sure if you even need things like scarves down here. It probably doesn’t get very cold. To be honest, I didn’t really know what kind of gift would be appropriate. You’re my son, and I hardly know you...” She hadn’t meant for her voice to sound quite so forlorn just then, or for her own words to cut into her heart the way they had. But she snapped herself out of it before she had time to analyze any further. “So if it’s not really your thing, then don’t worry. You can say so. I won’t be offended if—”

“No,” he interrupted her babbling, his eyes still fixed onto the scarf, “it’s a very nice gift. Practical…” He finally met her eyes again, and for half a second she thought she recognized a twinge of sadness in his own. “I _do_ like it.”

Sloan’s look of uncertainty slowly faded, a smile taking its place. “Good.”

Shaun neatly folded the scarf and then turned back toward his desk, placing it atop the stack of paperwork. He briefly pressed a hand over the material before stepping away and returning to the space he’d previously occupied.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, now then…I’m glad you stopped by. There is something I’ve been wanting to discuss with you. In fact, I was hoping that you could be of some assistance regarding a…delicate matter.”

“Really?” She quirked one eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “What can I help you with?”

“The last time we spoke, you and I were discussing the…dangers that synths could pose when unleashed into the world unsupervised.”

She nodded. “Of course, I remember. It was about synths occasionally struggling with the concept of free will, which—” she forced a convincing chuckle “—is obviously a fallacy. I was curious about exactly _how_ advanced their synthetic minds really are. Still am, to be honest.”

“Yes. Well, it would appear that the perfect opportunity has arisen for you to see this phenomenon for yourself. Above ground, in the Commonwealth, I’ve been alerted to a rogue synth who has taken over a gang of raiders.”

Sloan clucked her tongue. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Indeed not. This synth has had his memories wiped and his identity altered. He believes he’s a man called Gabriel, and under his leadership, many innocent lives have been lost.”

“That’s…horrible.” She made a face. “Okay, so I’m guessing this is where I come in. What are we going to do?”

“Well, I’ve already dispatched a Courser to Libertalia, where the synth is located, but I’d like you to accompany him. You are well acquainted with the dangers of the world above ground and, I believe, will be an asset in bringing this synth home. Perhaps by working together, the matter may be resolved more quickly and with less brutality involved.”

Sloan nodded. She wasn’t entirely sure how much Shaun knew of her past; particularly if he was even aware that she’d been a federal agent before the war. If possible, she hoped to keep that bit under wraps. The less he knew of it, the less he’d question her loyalty toward him.

“Alright. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“I would be grateful for it.” As if considering something, he added, “You are under no obligation to leave immediately, of course. I had no intention of springing it on you the moment you set foot here, I just…”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, Shaun. I would rather take care of this as soon as possible. Knowing there’s one less murderer out there would help me sleep better, especially considering this one is a dangerous synth who’s gone off the rails.”

“Very well,” Shaun said, retreating to his desk after lingering a moment longer. “Do be careful, Mother.”

“Always. I’ll just go take care of a few things and then head out.”

An opportunity to skip out of the Institute earlier than planned? Like hell she’d pass that up.

 

oOo

 

Sloan zipped up the duffel bag filled with rations she’d pilfered from the Institute’s cafeteria (Deacon would have an absolute _field day_ with those crazy food packets, which were essentially MREs—she wondered if he’d ever come across one in the Commonwealth) and high quality ammunition she’d received from Rosalind after another round of weapons testing. She was nearly ready to head back to the surface, and probably would have been long gone already if she hadn’t been trying not to appear too eager to leave.

Her personal quarters was quiet and clean, and smelled faintly of disinfectant. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be found anywhere. Clearly someone, likely one of the worker synths, was entering the suite on a daily basis to keep things tidy. Sloan supposed she ought to put some measure of effort into making the place look as if she actually planned on living there, so she had strategically placed a couple of seemingly random belongings around the room. A dirty shirt hung over her desk chair, a pair of boots sat near the door. She’d set a few empty Nuka Cola bottles on the coffee table, and several full ones now occupied the mini refrigerator. The lab coat Deacon had given her before she first arrived was now folded inside her dresser, and on its surface sat a sealed box of Fancy Lads.

It didn’t exactly scream ‘lived in’, but it was a start.

She slung the bag over her shoulder and headed out the door. There was one more thing that she had to do before leaving the Institute. More specifically, one more person she needed to touch bases with.

Getting his attention was easy enough; she simply waltzed into Robotics under the guise of checking on the product output as a favor for Shaun, and when nobody was looking, she caught his eye.

He must have understood the unspoken signal, because fifteen minutes later Liam found her in the storage closet where they’d had their first meeting.

“So,” he began, after a quick glance around to make sure nobody was listening in, “how’s it coming? Do you think you’ll be able to get me those credentials?”

“I do think so,” Sloan replied in a low voice. “We have a lead that we’re looking into right now. A couple of leads, really. We've got our best people on the case, I promise you.”

He nodded, visibly hopeful. “That’s good news. Maybe this can really work after all.”

“That’s the idea. Anyway, I’ll let you know as soon as I find out more. But,” she continued, making sure he was paying close attention for this next bit, “you also need to understand that this whole thing might take some time. Aside from all the dangers that go hand-in-hand with traipsing about topside looking through terminals, I...I’m sure you’re aware that I’m Sh—Father’s mother. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that he wouldn't take kindly to the knowledge that I've been helping to orchestrate this thing behind his back, so...I’m in a delicate situation right now. I really can’t afford to compromise that. If I give him any reason to distrust me, this will put a huge crimp in our plan.”

“Yeah, you're not wrong about that,” Liam agreed. “I've heard some talk around here. Some people refuse to trust you on principle no matter what Father says.” He shrugged somewhat apologetically. "Guess you can hardly blame them, all things considered. I mean, they're kind of right."

Sloan couldn’t help but chuckle. The cold, wary stares she’d gotten while wandering around had certainly not gone unnoticed. “They are. But if this all goes according to plan, they'll never realize it. I want to help the synths as much as you do, but I also want to do this without anyone getting hurt.”

By the look in Liam’s eyes, she knew she’d played her cards right. “Yeah, I do too. Okay. So we bide our time for now. What should I do in the meantime?”

“Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. Get a synth out here or there, but don’t take too many risks. You know, business as usual.”

“Business as usual,” he repeated. “Got it.”

 

oOo

 

Despite having given Shaun the impression that she was quite familiar with Libertalia, Sloan actually had no Earthly clue where this raider settlement was located. In fact, she had never even heard of it until that day.

Fortunately (and unsurprisingly), Deacon had.

“ _Oof_ ,” he said with a grimace when she asked him about it. “That place is bad news, boss.”

She ignored his obvious concern. “So you know where it is?”

“Well, yeah, but why the sudden interest?”

Sloan was grateful that the two of them were still standing in the dimly lit tunnels just outside HQ. The other Railroad members didn’t need to overhear the mission she’d been tasked with; it would surely be met with fierce disapproval, and she wasn’t so certain that Deacon would want to be a part of it either.

Still, she’d promised him honesty, and even though she knew damned well that he would never—and probably _could never—_ fully reciprocate, she was determined to follow through with it. She couldn’t afford to have him second-guessing her again.

So after a slight pause, Sloan sighed through her teeth. “You’re not gonna like this.”

“Ahh. When something is preceded by those five words, I rarely do.” He gave her an expectant look, and she relented.

“Okay, here it is. I’m told there’s a raider gang lording over Libertalia. Led by some guy named Gabriel.” She watched his expression—what she could see if it, anyway—very carefully as she continued, “He’s a synth. Escaped the Institute, had his memory wiped, and…”

“Aw, _shit._ ” Deacon let out a small sigh, running a hand over his freshly shaven head.

His reaction confirmed her suspicion, but she asked the question anyway. “A former package, I presume?”

He shrugged a bit helplessly. “Not that I can remember every Tom, Dick and Harry we take to Amari, but…yeah, sounds like our MO.” He shook his head, looking back at her with shielded eyes. “I know I don’t have to tell you that this was never part of the plan. Synths, they’re…well, they’re just like us. We give them the freedom to make their own choices, and sometimes they make the wrong ones. Always going to be a couple of rotten apples in the basket.”

“Hey, just so we’re clear, I’m not saying the Railroad is responsible for this mess.”

“But someone _is_ saying that _,_ ” he supplied. “And I’m guessing that ‘someone’ just assigned you to the clean-up crew.”

“You’re a good guesser,” she replied in a flat tone. “And even better—I get to team up with a real, live Courser. Oh, yes,” she added when his jaw went slightly slack. “Shau—Fath— _fuck_ , I never know what to call him—said he’ll be waiting for me at the wharf.”

“Really? So until you show up, that Courser is going to be, what? Kicking back and enjoying a pina colada while he catches some rays? Or, option B, terrorizing innocents until you give him something more fun to do?”

Sloan pursed her lips. “Option B is what I’m afraid of.”

“Well,” Deacon began after a short silence, “guess that means we better take care of this ASAP.”

She raised her eyebrows in question. “We?”

“You didn’t really think I was going to sit this one out, did you?” By the look on her face, he gathered that she had indeed thought just that. “Look, I don’t like it. But this is some high-stakes shit. It’s your chance to prove yourself to the Institute, right? You pull this off without a hitch, and they _have_ to trust you. Hell, the Railroad’s success _depends_ on it. So that means no shenanigans. It’s got to go their way, no matter how icky it makes us feel.”

Sloan nodded, suddenly feeling silly for having doubted his willingness to involve himself in this mission. He was a goddamn spy, after all. Deacon practically _lived_ undercover, and that was one area in which he simply outclassed her in every aspect.

“Right,” she said, adjusting the duffle bag strap that was still slung over her shoulder and trying to ignore the way her stomach was working itself into a knot. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

 

oOo

 

Darkness had blanketed the Commonwealth by the time Sloan and Deacon had set out toward Libertalia, which, as it turned out, was located in Nahant. Sloan remembered the place well; she and Nate had gone to the beach there a couple of times during the summer after Shaun was born. It had been a great place to go when she wanted to escape for a bit, or challenge Nate to a friendly rock-climbing competition.

She could only imagine all the ways the war had ravaged it.

Thunder rumbled softly from above as they trekked toward the coast. A light mist was dampening their clothing, but neither of them found it intolerable. Deacon made some remark about rain getting a bad rep when, really, _mud_ was more deserving of the stigma.

Aside from a bit of their usual back-and-forth, much of their conversation involved preparing for what was to come. Deacon would have ideally preferred resolve the matter without killing Gabriel or sending him back to the Institute—particularly after all the effort the Railroad had expended to ensure his freedom—but he also was quick to reiterate that any sort of Option C was doomed to fail.

_“What it boils down to is,”_ he’d mused as they were passing a package of Potato Crisps back and forth on the trail, _“we either return him to the Institute on a_ silver fucking platter, _or we shoot him in the head and make it look like an accident. Any other way, and you’re outed as a double agent. Silver lining? Maybe we’ll be able to save him again when we bring down the Institute for good…if he feels like not murdering people anymore, that is.”_

_“So are you willing to give him a second chance just because he’s a synth?”_ She had questioned, genuinely curious, because Deacon was not known for sticking his neck out to help raiders. _“Or because you think_ everybody _deserves one?”_

He’d offered a chuckle and the sort of elusive response that she had been expecting. _“I’m not exactly Gandhi here, but yeah, I like to think so.”_

After that, he seemed a bit less talkative than usual. Not that silence between them was abnormal by any stretch, but something about this particular silence seemed a bit off. Sloan had to wonder if he really would have rather stayed back at headquarters, though it was useless to bring that up now that they were already halfway to Libertalia. Perhaps he felt plagued by the Railroad’s involvement in inflicting Gabriel upon the Commonwealth after all. Whatever it was, Sloan was sure that she’d be left guessing for all eternity.

When the light mist eventually graduated to a steady downpour, the two of them decided to call it a night and seek out shelter.

“I’m thinking we got another hour’s hike ahead of us,” Deacon said as they worked to create a barricade behind the counter of a broken down old diner—an attempt to keep most of the storm’s wrath at bay. “Not counting any _delightful_ wasteland distractions we’ll inevitably encounter on the way.”

“And I know how much you adore those.” Sloan dragged the last overturned table toward their makeshift wall, pushing it up beside another.

“Don’t let my screams of terror fool you.” He chuckled, though it sounded somewhat forced.

Sloan stared back at him for a bit longer than necessary, but decided to say nothing. Instead, she set to work unpacking her bedroll and clearing a space on the floor directly behind the counter. Deacon claimed a space nearby, and although they managed to get a small fire going, it wasn’t quite enough to keep them warm and so it wasn’t long before the two of them ended up huddled side-by-side.

The tension in the air was practically palpable at that point. Sloan attempted some light conversation here and there, only to be met with responses that were either a tad _too_ cheery or the _slightest_ bit flat. The difference probably would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But to her, he seemed distracted. It reminded her of the way he had acted when she’d first returned from the Institute, just before she had blown up at him, and it made her a little uneasy.

They sat together like that for about an hour, shoulder to shoulder in mostly silence, listening to the rain beat down onto the broken roof and the _plip, plip, plip_ of water dripping from several leaks above. Sloan had her knees drawn up to her chest and her forehead resting against them, and she had just begun to drift off a little when Deacon’s voice broke through the haze.

“Hey,” he said, his voice beginning in a whisper. “You, uh…still awake?”

She lifted her head in response and nodded slightly. “I’ve got water seeping into the ass of my jeans,” she remarked, as if it were obvious that such a thing would inhibit sleep. “So yeah, I’m awake.” He was quiet for a while before she gently nudged him with her shoulder. “What’s up?”

It wasn’t like Deacon to struggle with his words, but right now he appeared to be doing exactly that.

“It’s just…there’s…something I really need to say.”

Sloan glanced over at him, ready with a witty remark, but something about his troubled expression concerned her. Hell, he wouldn’t even _look_ at her, just continued to stare straight ahead at the small pit of glowing embers.

Her comment died in her throat. “Oh. Okay…”

“It’s, uh…” He stared down at his fidgeting hands, shoulders tense as he let out a short breath of air, and wow, he _really_ looked uncomfortable. “It’s important,” he finally said, still not looking directly at her.

She swallowed inaudibly, feeling the unease creep in again. She did her best not to let it show. “Deacon, what is this about?” She went for the lighthearted route, nudging him gently once more as she prompted him with, “Come on, out with it. I’m your friend, so whatever it is, I won’t judge. Promise.”

There was a tiny smirk on his lips. “ _Friend_ , huh?” The way he spoke the word made it seem as though it were a foreign concept to him. He angled himself slightly toward her before leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “You know, the truth is, it’s been a long time since I’ve had one of those.” There was a pause, and then after a soft exhale he continued, “And I gotta say, I really appreciate you putting up with my bullshit.

“I’m a liar,” he continued, his voice rising slightly, “everyone knows it. Hell, I make no secret of it. Because the truth is…I’m a fraud. To my core.”

In a stark contrast to his usual energy, Deacon’s tone sounded hollow. _Dejected._ Shoulders slumped, sitting there beside her with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips and staring at the dusty brick wall across from them, he just looked utterly deflated. As if he knew that revealing this part of himself to her was going to cost him.

Sloan felt her stomach begin to twist itself into a knot, but on the surface she remained calm. “What do you mean?” She gently asked.

She watched his jaw clench in the fading firelight.

“When I was young—a hell of a long time ago—I was, well… _scum._ I was a bigot,” he clarified before she could even ask, his words laced with a note of self-loathing. “A very violent bigot.”

The crease between Sloan’s brows deepened. “Deacon…”

“Just…hear me out, okay? Make your judgments after.”

She conceded, watching him carefully in the semi-darkness from the corner of her eye, reasonably certain she knew where this was going. “So what happened? Were you really _that_ bad?”

“Worse,” he breathed. He took the cigarette from his between his lips and squashed it onto the dirtied floor. “I ran with this gang in University Point. We called ourselves the ‘UP Deathclaws’. For kicks, we’d terrorize anyone that we thought was a synth.”

_And there it is._ Saying nothing, Sloan merely nodded and waited patiently for him to continue.

“We kept egging each other on. Started with some property damage, graduated to some beat downs. Then, inevitably…a lynching.” The last word came out in a near-whisper, raw and haunting as his fingers clenched into fists in his lap.

Sloan’s gaze dropped from Deacon to focus on some random rough spot on the floor between their feet, refusing to react just yet. If she were being honest—assuming this was the truth—she couldn’t say she was surprised to find out that he’d been a part of something like that. Had she been profiling him (and she _hadn’t_ been—at least not on purpose), that would have been one of the first things on the list.

“The Claws’ leader was convinced we’d finally found and killed a synth. Looking back, I’m not so sure,” Deacon admitted with a heavy sigh.

Sloan raised her eyebrows a tad. “A human? You killed a human?” She immediately regretted how those words sounded on her lips. They weren’t meant to be accusatory, but he seemed to shrink a little upon hearing them, and Sloan felt her chest tighten.

Deacon’s head bowed deeper, and Sloan could just see his eyelashes over the frame of his sunglasses.

“That _one_ was enough for me,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “His eyes…they still haunt me. Wide, _bulging_ eyes…”

Her own fingers laced together, tightly, and she shut her eyes against the tug of one of her own memories. _Wide eyes, frozen forever in death, telling the story of that very last moment…_

Sloan swallowed and forced herself to focus. “What did you do after that?”

“I turned my back on my _brothers,”_ he said, speaking the word with disdain. “Broke all contact. Time passed, and I became a farmer, if you can believe that.” He let out the smallest chuckle, but she knew it was just for show. “Then, one day, I found someone.

“She saw something in me I didn’t even know was there.” Deacon’s whole face and tone seemed to shift a little when he spoke her name, and Sloan saw a sort of tenderness in him that she’d never been permitted to witness until that moment. “ _Barbara,_ she was…well, she just _was.”_

It told Sloan nothing and everything all at once, and she understood because there were no words in the English language that could properly define what Nate had meant to her, either. She felt the foolish urge to reach out to him, but gripped her own fingers together more tightly instead.

Still, Sloan was unable to hold back her curiosity, and found herself tentatively asking, “What was she like?”

Deacon looked up at her, the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly. When he spoke, his voice had a new, faraway quality to it. “She had a smile like on one of those old magazine covers. And her eyes…” He closed his eyes for just a moment and exhaled softly, his fingers unclenching as he idly turned his hands over. “She was more than I deserved. I always knew that, but I married her anyway. Call me selfish... But being with her made me feel like this whole world had a chance, blown to hell or not. That one day we could actually climb out of this wreckage. She could do that to people.

“We were trying for kids, ekeing out a living,” he continued, and the returning hollowness in his tone gave Sloan the distinct gut-wrenching feeling that the other shoe was about to drop. “Then, one day…well, turns out that my Barbara…she was a synth.”

“Oh, no…” Suddenly she knew exactly where this was going, and the creases on his forehead only reinforced her certainty.

He shrugged in a somewhat helpless manner. “She didn’t know that. _I_ certainly didn’t. I don’t know how the Deathclaws found out, but…there was blood. It…I don’t remember much of what happened afterward, just bits and pieces. Bodies…gunshots…the screams…it’s all just a jumbled mess in my mind."

Sloan hissed a sigh. “ _Shit_ , Deacon, I’m sorry. That must’ve been hell.”

“Definitely no picnic to live through,” he affirmed. Thunder rolled from above, as if to concur. "I must’ve made a big impression, because the Railroad contacted me some time later. Guess they figured I’d be sympathetic, seeing that I lost my wife.”

For about a minute--or possibly twenty--the only sounds were of the raindrops and the random popping from the pit of embers as their fire struggled to stay alight. Deacon reached into his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes, and Sloan looked on as he lit it. Her mind was practically buzzing.

“So...the Railroad really invited you in, even though you used to be a member of the UP Deathclaws?” She practically bit her own tongue off, and hurried to clarify her point. “I just mean, _I_ barely got in and that was only because of you. I’m just—”

Deacon let out a good-natured chuckle, and for just a few seconds, the somber atmosphere lightened just a little. “It’s okay, Charms. I know.” He exhaled a mouthful of smoke, and after a few beats he said, “I guess so many years had passed by then, probably nobody except for the Claws knew about my involvement. All the Railroad knew was that someone fought _back.”_

She nodded, falling silent, noting that the downpour outside had let up a bit during their conversation.

But, surprisingly, Deacon wasn't finished.

"You know," he said after a couple of drags, "I don’t even know why I lie anymore. I really don't. But I can’t tell the truth. Everyone—Tom, Dez, you, even that asshole Carrington—they deserve to be in the Railroad. _I don’t,"_ he practically spat out, the venom and self-loathing in the words causing Sloan to visibly flinch. "I’m everything wrong with this whole _fucking_ Commonwealth. You’re the only friend I got. I don’t deserve you being okay with this. Hell, I’m not even asking for it. But…I just figured you should know who you're really traveling with."

Sloan sat there, quietly, pursing her lips as her brain parsed through what she'd just heard. Her eyes followed the flickering shadows against the far wall while that ever-vigilant voice of reason in the back of her mind cautioned her that _all of this could be the biggest fucking lie he's ever told her._

Still, this was different. As with most pathological liars, Deacon's stories always painted him in a positive light. In this one, he was clearly the villain. This one was not meant as some kind of lesson, or to prop himself up in some way. Deacon lied to protect himself, to keep the Railroad safe, to entertain those such as herself. His lies were compulsive. A coping mechanism. Telling the truth would mean _accepting_ the truth, and it was abundantly clear that Deacon was in no psychological state to manage that.

But he'd told _her._ No matter how obviously uncomfortable he was, he had opened up. For a moment, he'd trusted her-- _really_ trusted her. She'd found a crack in that impenetrable fortress of his and she had briefly glimpsed the wreckage within. And while she had to question the credibility of his confession, she couldn't discount it either. She’d always known that Deacon was harboring something dark and heavy. Something that made him sacrifice _everything_ for the Railroad and their cause. Something that kept him awake at night, kept him changing his face, kept him from forging bonds.

When it came right down to it, Deacon's sordid tale just _didn't make sense to be a lie._

But even so...

Even so, even if it _was_ a complete fabrication, it was clearly one that he needed her to believe.

"Just so we're clear," she finally said, choosing her words carefully, "I'm not okay with what you did. But you've owned up to it and you're doing your best to make amends. And no matter what you say, I happen to think you're an okay guy. So _I'm_ okay with _you."_ She gave him a soft smile, lightly bumping his side with her knee. "I really meant it when I said that I'm your friend. I'd even admit that in public."

Deacon's entire demeanor brightened almost immediately, and she thought she saw a hint of a genuine smile on his lips. Sloan felt heavy and light all at once, and she couldn't help but grin back.

“I'll have to put that to the test sometime," he joked, relief bleeding into his words. "Anyway, I’m not really the hugging type. So…yeah. Good talk.”


	18. Liberating Libertalia

 

** DECEMBER 25, 2287 **

****

No more words were spoken for quite some time after their big talk.

Sloan hugged her knees, head resting on her forearm and angled so that, if she opened her eyes, she could watch Deacon's still form in the dim lighting. She was trying to decide whether or not he was actually asleep. He was leaned back against the cold counter wall, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes hidden as always. His arms were crossed over his chest in an effort to conserve body heat, hands hidden inside the long sleeves of his padded denim jacket. Every now and then a puff of warmth would escape his lips, only to quickly dissipate into the air above.

It was _damned_ _cold._

While the storm had lulled considerably, an icy wind was quickly working to take its place. It whistled around the walls and found cracks to creep into and skin to nip at. Even worse was the fact that the diner had become so saturated with rainwater that there was hardly a dry spot to be found; it had even managed to seep into both their bedrolls, which now served as little more than soggy mats for them to sit upon.

Sloan sighed softly, fighting back the shiver as it raced down her spine. She wasn't exactly dressed lightly herself (when the temperature continued to drop, Deacon had wordlessly reached into his pack and withdrew a leather jacket to toss her way) but even so, the chill had worked its way into her bones and now stubbornly clutched at her extremities.

Her eyes fluttered open once more, a bit bleary from the cold, and Deacon still hadn't moved from his spot but she made up her mind right then that she no longer cared if she woke him or not. She moved swiftly to adjust her position, scooting closer until their sides were pressed together, and then looping her arms around one of his.

The action earned her a small hiss of protest, though he did loosen his crossed arms enough for hers to slide through.

"Oh, I see how it is," he remarked, no drowsiness apparent in his voice. "Trying to leech all the warmth I worked so hard to preserve, huh?"

Sloan gasped in mock offense. “What? No way. This is pure affection, buddy. No ulterior motive whatsoever.”

Deacon huffed in amusement. “I _might_ have been tempted to believe you after our touchy-feely talk earlier, except your hands are like blocks of ice and you just lodged them under my armpit,” he complained, performing an exaggerated shiver.

She sighed contentedly, relishing the warmth that had begun to chase the cold from her frigid fingers. “Yeah…I’m not even slightly ashamed.”

Conversation was soon abandoned in favor of a comfortable hush. As the minutes ticked their way toward an hour, Sloan’s head came to rest comfortably on Deacon’s shoulder. They sat together like that, mostly motionless aside from the minute movements made by gentle breaths, listening to the lazy drizzle from outside.

Retreating into her own mind, Sloan tried to find a small bit of comfort to hold onto in order to guide herself toward sleep. But the only thing she could manage to focus on was the story Deacon had told her that night. His words—haunting, full of remorse and distinctly broken—repeated over and over as she replayed the scene, unconsciously trying to dissect and analyze the story further.

If it was a lie, there was sure to be some sort of tell woven into the tapestry somewhere. On the other hand, if it was the truth, then he had essentially given her a basis from which she could extract everything she ever needed to know about him.

In the end, her thought process had, once again, circled back to the big mystery behind Deacon’s reason for tracking her wasteland activities before she’d even known he existed, and her mind saw fit to dredge up all the questions she’d been putting off thinking about.

For one, how had he heard about her in the first place? Surely one of his tourists had to have mentioned something, but why would he have decided it mattered enough to follow up on? Was it because of the so-called ‘nobility’ that he claimed she exhibited and he simply thought that she would be willing to lend the Railroad a hand?

Sloan refused to believe that it was really that simple. Deacon had surely seen something that had convinced him she was worth investing so much time in, but what? _When?_ Given his penchant for disguises and his talent for blending into his surroundings, there were a lot of variables. Their paths might have crossed at least a dozen times prior to their official meeting and Sloan would have been none the wiser.

Still, she had been very careful not to divulge any details of her special circumstances to anyone she wasn’t certain she could trust, and those individuals were _very_ few in number.

Nick and Piper had been the first to find out; Sloan vividly recalled sitting in the synth detective’s dingy office, both their eyes trained on her while she described whatever details concerning Conrad Kellogg that she could manage to recall. There had been no choice but to be forthright, else neither of them would have been able to help her.

Deacon had been the second, although he'd gotten the cliff-notes version while the two of them headed out toward their first op together in Lexington because Sloan hadn't been entirely sure of how much she could trust him. All she'd told him at the time was that she had come from Vault 111, where she'd been frozen for something around 200 years, and she was holding the Institute personally responsible for destroying her family.

He hadn't pressed further, and she hadn't stopped to wonder why.

As for the rest of the Railroad? Despite the fact that they had become Sloan's greatest allies in her quest to find out what had become of her son, she hadn't actually told them anything beyond the fact that the Institute had stolen someone away from her (and they surely suspected that she was no ordinary wastelander, but one of the perks to joining a clandestine organization was that people didn't tend to ask too many personal questions).

But Deacon had already decided that he was going to vouch for her even before she had volunteered that information. His reasoning was that she had killed a Courser, which meant that she couldn't _possibly_ be working for the Institute...but that didn't necessarily make her a friend by default, and she knew that Deacon was too smart and too cautious to have assumed as much. She could have been working with the Brotherhood. Hell, she could have been a synth spy with a fucking _decoy_ chip.

_Had he already known the truth?_

Sloan remembered his Diamond City guard disguise, and wondered if perhaps he had found a way to listen in on her conversation with Nick and Piper. But that theory left more questions than answers. How would Deacon have even _known_ to be in the right place at the right time? Had he been following her even before then?

Had he been in Concord? Sanctuary Hills?

_Or..._

There was a nagging, persistent thought in the back of her mind that Sloan desperately wanted to ignore. A _what-if_ that she wanted to believe wasn’t possible, because that one possibility could change things exponentially. And if he had lied to her about something like that…

No. No way. _That_ was crazy. _That_ didn’t even make sense.

What it all boiled down to was the need for cold, hard evidence, because all she currently had to go on was her own speculation. And really, a part of her argued, she already knew that he truly _was_ her ally. Friend, even. He’d more than proven that already. In the grand scheme of things, would it actually matter if she discovered what he hadn't been telling her?

She sighed, wrenching her mind from those thoughts and carefully tucking her head further down Deacon’s shoulder to where the padding on his jacket was thicker.

Secrets or not, she was grateful for his company, and not just because sitting next to him was currently keeping her warm...or because of his invaluable knowledge of the post-apocalyptic Commonwealth and all its dangers...or because of how well they were able to work together...or even because he had prevented her from bleeding out on the streets that one night.

Sloan cleared her throat quietly, suddenly feeling the need to say something that was probably a bit overdue.

"Deacon...?"

“Hm?” Deacon responded, sounding as though he’d almost just nodded off. "Something wrong?"

She shook her head slightly against his jacket. “No. Actually...this might sound a little dumb, but I just...I wanted to thank you.”

His surprise was apparent. “For…what? Being your own personal heating unit? No need, pal. Although, just so you know, I'm always willing to accept compensation in the form of Fancy Lads or cigarettes.”

She snorted softly. “No, not for that. Well, okay, a _little bit_ for that. But mostly for…well, _everything_. Having my back. Being my friend. Helping me adjust. I mean, not to get all mushy or anything, but if it weren’t for you, this place would be a hell of a lot more miserable.” She paused to disguise her irrepressible yawn as a deep breath. “Anyway, you said once that you’ve always been in my corner. I just…want you to know that no matter what happens, I’m in yours, too.”

There was a pregnant pause as Sloan waited for him to formulate a response, and she could practically feel him hesitating as the inner workings of his mind stuttered. Clearly he hadn’t expected to hear her say such a thing. She surmised that the reciprocation of loyalty was a concept as foreign to him as friendship.

But he was quick to rebound, and after a moment he playfully crooned, “Aww, that was so _sweet_. Almost brings a tear to the eye. I’m definitely going to write about this moment in my diary later.”

Sloan rolled her eyes, feeling a bit made fun of, but knew that he was simply deflecting. She had come to understand that part of him some time ago. So rather than push him any more out of his comfort zone, she responded using a method that he was more comfortable with, patting his leg as she joked, “Hey, hey, don’t cry. That’d just be embarrassing for both of us, and you’ll fog up your glasses.”

Deacon's light chuckle ended in a contented sigh of sorts. "Too late," he remarked. "Rain's already seen to that. Everything's been a blur for _hours."_

The smile slowly faded from Sloan's lips as her eyelids gradually grew heavier. She felt him relax; shoulders releasing tension, his breaths becoming deeper and more even, and she wasn't entirely sure how much time went by before she felt him stir once more. Deacon's voice followed shortly afterward, hushed and a little hesitant, briefly shaking her from the space between reality and dreams.

“…Charms?”

“Mm?” Came her half-asleep response, her lashes fluttering but eyelids remaining shut.

The word was nearly inaudible, whispered into her hair. “Thanks.”

 

oOo

 

** DECEMBER 26, 2287 **

 

The pull of consciousness came all too soon and, with her brain still enveloped in its hazy sleep-induced bubble, Sloan was content to reject it as long as possible. Her body, having finally found some semblance of warmth and comfort to cling to, was inclined to agree.

For the first time since waking from her two-century siesta, she had made it through one night without being plagued by nightmares or tormented by memories. And, damn it, she wanted to hold on to that feeling for _just a little longer._

Stubbornly, she snuggled herself more securely into her heat source. Her hands reached around its form to clasp together in her refusal to let go, while her legs remained tucked up snugly against it.

Just five more minutes, that was all she needed. Five more minutes of fuzzy, pleasant _nothingness._

But Sloan was losing the battle, feeling herself slipping from slumber’s pleasant grasp as her ears began to register small noises from the world outside her mind: a pair of gulls arguing from far off, the gentle _‘plip, plop’_ of water splashing onto the counter from above, and finally the deep inhalation of breath from just beneath her ear.

“ _Wakey, wakey,_ Charmer,” came a familiar voice, close enough to gently ruffle her hair.

She froze.

_Deacon…?_

In an instant, Sloan’s mind came crashing back to Earth. Her body quickly followed suit, eyes snapping open at around the same time she realized what—or, more accurately, _who—_ she’d been clinging so tightly to this whole time.

“Oh—oh, shit,” she exclaimed, becoming flustered as she hurriedly pushed herself back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even—I wasn’t trying to—” She paused to glance up at his face, searching him for cues. But if she’d made him uncomfortable, he certainly wasn’t letting it show. So she willed herself to relax a little, sighing as she said, “You could’ve just—next time just push me off. I won’t get mad.”

“Yeah, I tried to,” Deacon assured her, his lips curling a bit in mirth, “but you seemed to take that as a challenge.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying her embarrassment. “You know, you’re lucky the judicial system is obsolete, otherwise we might be talking ‘restraining order’ here.”

“Very funny…” Sloan grimaced, feeling the flush creeping into her face as she stood up and allowed him some space.

“Harassment is no laughing matter. I’d _never_ joke about that,” he said solemnly, despite the fact that he was obviously joking.

Sloan shook her head, running a hand through her tousled hair. “Ugh. Really, I _am_ sorry, I didn’t mean to crowd you like that. It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with someone—oh! Oh no, I just meant it’s just been so long since I’ve slept with someone that—ugh, _shit,_ that’s worse...” Now properly mortified, Sloan held up a hand as Deacon tried hard to maintain a straight face. “You know what? I’m walking away now. I’m just…walking away.”

She pivoted on one foot and quickly strode away, plucking up her pack as she went.

Deacon’s voice was full of laughter as he called out, “Hey! Next time I get to be the big spoon!”

 

oOo

 

The rain—or the light drizzle leftover after the storm, anyway—had finally moved on by the time Deacon and Sloan arrived at the wharf, though a thick fog had taken its place, significantly reducing the visibility of the area around them. Deacon was quick to laud this natural cover and point out that, while they could barely see a hundred feet ahead of them, they would also remain safely concealed from the unsuspecting raiders of Libertalia.

 _“Prime espionage conditions, boss,”_ he’d told her, looking quite pleased as they carefully scanned their surroundings.

Sloan wasn’t sure exactly where they were supposed to find this Courser, or what she was even supposed to be looking for. She knew that all Coursers wore their designated Institute trenchcoat, but beyond that, she’d been given no physical descriptors to go on. She could only assume that the Courser would find _them_ , which, frankly, was a bit unnerving. Moreso for Deacon, who had made a comment earlier regarding how little he enjoyed being snuck up on. That was _his_ thing, he’d insisted.

The wharf was eerily quiet. They couldn’t yet see the shipyard beyond the warehouse ahead of them, but they could hear the water as it gently slapped against concrete, and the distant creaking of aging docks a bit further out. From somewhere above came the occasional outcry of a circling seagull as it searched for prey.

“Heads up,” came Deacon’s hushed warning from just beside her. “Someone’s been busy…”

Sloan followed his gaze and immediately saw what he was referring to; a body was strewn across the broken walkway not far ahead, and as they crept closer, she spotted another one slumped against the wall of the warehouse. Raiders, by the looks of them, and they hadn’t been dead for long. Deacon had been right in assuming the Courser would find ways to pass the time while waiting for her to arrive. She was just thankful that these people hadn’t been innocents.

She fell into a crouch, weapon held ready as she pivoted on one foot and slowly inched sideways toward the wall with Deacon at her six. As her eyes swept the perimeter once more, she finally caught sight of a figure at the far end of the warehouse, half concealed in the shadows. He was standing so still that she’d nearly missed him.

Giving Deacon a nudge, she nodded in the Courser’s direction. “There…”

He peered over her shoulder, lifting his sunglasses to afford himself a clearer view. “Yep. That’s our Institute-approved killing machine, in the flesh. We gonna go say hello? Not to bust your bubble or anything, but he probably already knows we’re here.”

Sloan swallowed down a wave of uncertainty, recalling the last encounter she’d had with a Courser. This one was supposed to be considerably more agreeable, but that didn’t mean she was going to trust him by default.

“Alright,” she whispered back, drawing in a slow breath as she lowered her gun. “Game on.”

The both of them rose to their full heights, weapons held casually at their sides as they sauntered over to the Courser. Sloan let her boots scuff the pavement once or twice to make sure that they had his attention, although he didn’t acknowledge their presence until they were well within the appropriate range of conversation.

He was tall, just as the other had been. Dark and clean-cut. Sunglasses masked his eyes, and his lack of expression was rather unnerving. His movements were precise and purposeful, and he turned his head only enough so that he could look her square in the eye.

Sloan forced the kneejerk fear toward the back of her mind, fiercely reminding herself that she’d killed one of these Coursers before and, damn it, she would kill one again if she had to.

She cleared her throat and addressed him with an air of nonchalance. “You must be the Courser I’m supposed to meet.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied coolly. “Designation X6-88.”

The way he so casually referred to himself as a number made her skin crawl.

She nodded. “X6-88, huh? Well, I guess you already know who I am. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend,” she said, tilting her head toward Deacon. “Figured we might use the extra hand.”

Deacon offered a smirk. “I gotta say, I’ve been awfully curious about you _Institute_ bunch. Wanted to see for myself what the fuss is all about. Besides, when it comes to raiders, I’m always up for some mass eviction. What do you say, pal?”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” said X6 simply.

“Perfect. Then it’s settled.”

Sloan could practically sense Deacon bristle at the Courser’s indifference, though he gave no outward indication of his annoyance. Instead, he busied himself with checking his rifle and making sure that it was ready for combat.

X6 turned his gaze back to Sloan. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I have already neutralized the perimeter guard. The others have not yet noticed their absence.”

“And Gabriel?”

“Designation B5-92 is holed up in the shack on top of the up-ended cargo ship further out in the bay. He’s probably got his best fighters with him, so we should plan on heavy resistance. At your word, we will begin the assault on the main flotilla.”

She gave a slow nod. “Let’s get this show on the road, then.”

 

oOo

 

“B5-92, initialize factory reset. Authorization gamma-7-1-epsilon.”

_He’s just a raider._

“Boss? You okay?!”

_But he’s still a person._

 “He ain’t movin’! Yo, boss!!”

_He’s killed people._

 “Gabriel! Can you hear me?”

_This isn’t justice._

“He’s just standin’ there! Gabriel!”

_Does it matter? He deserves this._

“Shit! They did something to him!”

_Does he really?_

“Take them out!”

In an explosion of cacophony, every raider atop the platform opened fire.

Sloan’s instincts took over while her brain was on standby, immediately launching her body toward the nearest cover. She hit the floor in a roll, skidding to a stop against a stack of heavy wooden crates. The impact served to knock her brain out of its daze, and she immediately flattened herself against her cover to swiftly assess the situation.

Four, five raiders. All heavily armed. All shooting to kill.

_Focus, damn it._

“Shit,” she hissed, peering through her pistol’s scope and squeezing the trigger.

The sound of the shot was drowned out amidst the rapid gunfire around her. Her target barked expletives as the bullet bit through his shoulder.

 _“Shit.”_ She took aim again, only to watch the raider drop to the floor as a flash of red seared his skull.

Her eyes darted to the side, catching sight of X6. He was standing amid the fray, returning fire by means of an Institute-issued laser pistol and sidestepping bullets with a swiftness that Sloan was sure she’d never match even if she’d lived another 200 years.

He was like a goddamned Terminator. He was unyielding, his accuracy unrivaled. She and Deacon had more than managed to hold their own throughout the trip to the top of the cargo ship, an impeccable team same as always, but X6 was on a level all on his own. He could have done this mission solo, she surmised, and with very few complications at that.

One by one, the group of three took out the remaining raiders, quelling the chaos until finally the last shot rang out and the final target went toppling over the edge of the ship.

Suddenly the silence was deafening.

X6 holstered his weapon after quickly glancing around the perimeter. “Nice work, ma’am.”

Sloan swallowed, slowly rising to her feet, her pistol still held ready should any surprises be lurking nearby. Her eyes fell upon Gabriel’s wilted form; he remained on his feet, shoulders slumped forward, head down. Still breathing, but immobile.

It was the second time she’d seen a synth rendered docile. The first still haunted her sleeping hours. She wanted to wrench her eyes away, but she couldn’t seem to focus on anything else.

His memories. His life. His entire sense of self. It was all gone.

_Gone._

All by her own command.

Gabriel was no more. All that was left in his place was an empty Institute puppet, to be brought back and reprogrammed as something the SRB deemed more useful.

It was a fate much worse than death, as far as she was concerned. Unethical. Cruel.

 _This is not justice,_ her mind reprimanded once more.

She took a few cautious steps toward the stilled synth, her gun hanging low at her side, when the Courser spoke again.

“I’ll take the synth back,” he stated, indifferent as ever, as if they had simply gone to pick up supplies at a hardware store.

She'd opened her mouth to speak, but X6 had him before Sloan could think of any remotely viable solution to the conflict roiling within her. She watched while he gripped Gabriel by the arm, and then heard him speak into a communication device.

“This is X6-88, ready to relay with reclaimed synth B5-92.”

There was a burst of blue, and X6 was gone.

Feeling the air leave her lungs all at once, Sloan dropped to her knees onto the rough wooden flooring. She felt dirty. Vile. _Wrong._

Gabriel had been a raider. A seedy, despicable raider who had unleashed his gang of violent comrades onto civilians around the Commonwealth. Under him, they had hurt people. They had stolen from people. There was no question that he'd done terrible things, and he needed to answer for them.

But _this._

Gabriel would never even remember this.

She wished she’d killed him instead.

 _“I just reacted on impulse”_ probably would have been a believable excuse, especially since she hadn’t been told what Gabriel looked like beforehand. Synths were expendable to the Institute, anyway. Shaun would have gotten over it.

Sloan didn’t realize her hands were trembling until the pistol had already slipped from her grip and thumped to the floor. She sat back on her heels, forcing her eyes shut and drawing in a deep breath.

Deacon’s hand clutched at her shoulder, tight, fingers clenched around the fabric of her jacket, and she understood the unspoken sentiment. Double-agent duty was no small or simple undertaking, and it came with a price. But she wasn’t carrying that burden on her own anymore.

“We’ll make it right,” she said, her voice hollow and hushed and exuding far more confidence than she felt. “We _have_ to.”

He gave her shoulder an emphatic squeeze, and she looked up to see his jaw clench as he nodded. “Damn fucking straight we will.”

 

 


	19. Specters

** DECEMBER 27, 2287 **

It was late at night when Sloan found herself wandering the halls of the Institute. She couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stand to be holed up inside her quarters any longer, so she’d walked out her door and down the corridor. Presently she seemed to be shuffling her way down to the cafeteria.

Even in the dead of night the underground facility remained lit, although there appeared to be some effort put toward creating a sleep-friendly environment because much of the residential areas were now bathed in red spectrum lighting.

Sloan wasn’t so sure that this lent itself toward a relaxing atmosphere, though; with the shadowy figures of Gen 1 synths patrolling the halls, she felt more like the hapless protagonist in some sort of film describing a dystopian future ruled by robots.

“Scanning…” Came a mechanical voice from just behind her, and she shivered involuntarily. “Clearance confirmed.”

She stalled her footsteps, waiting for the synth to pass her and continue its designated patrol. While she had little doubt that the Institute scientists knew their stuff, there was still something about the Gen 1s that she didn’t quite trust; a feeling that could possibly be attributed to having read one too many sci-fi novels in her pre-war days.

The synth marched on ahead of her. Sloan hung back a moment longer and then, due to either boredom or curiosity—possibly an amalgamation of both—she fell into step some paces behind it.

It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do, really. Why not find out where the patrol would take them?

The answer, of course, was even less interesting than she’d predicted. After a routine sweep around the main living quarters, the Gen 1 reversed its path, heading back the direction it had come.

“Sensor error,” it announced after one of its arms caught a doorway upon exiting the hall, sending it stumbling sideways in a jerky, unnatural manner before it regained equilibrium. “Recalibration recommended. Reporting to Robotics for routine maintenance.”

Sloan watched as it swiftly changed direction and, because she was still wide awake and the thought of going back to her uncomfortably-pristine quarters did not appeal to her, she found herself following the synth as it marched dutifully toward the Robotics division. She wondered who was awake at such an hour. There was always at least one scientist on duty in each division, no matter what time of day. The Institute valued productivity over a good night’s sleep, and Sloan often overheard the scientists remarking offhandedly on how they would sometimes spend upwards of thirty some-odd hours developing their projects without so much as a ten-minute power nap.

Of course, she understood how that sort of thing could happen. Sleep had taken one of the lowest spots on her own list of priorities while she’d been desperately combing the Commonwealth for clues on her son’s whereabouts. And even back before the war, her work always had a way of taking precedence over almost anything else. During such times, while she was parsing through a suspect’s profile for the twelfth time in search of the _one_ piece of information that might help solve the case, Nate would bring her food and hot beverages and occasionally the not-so-subtle hint that she was in dire need of a shower.

He always made sure that she remembered to take care of herself.

A soft ‘hiss’ from somewhere up ahead interrupted her thoughts just then. She glanced up, noting that while she’d been spacing out, the Gen 1 had arrived at the entrance of the Robotics Division. It walked through the short corridor into the large, dome-shaped room that Sloan best remembered as the place in which synths were mass-produced. Unlike the residential areas, this room remained lit up with the same fluorescent lighting as could be seen during regular working hours. She imagined such an environment must make it impossible for staff to tell what time of day it was. It was really no wonder nobody in the Institute had any semblance of a normal sleep routine.

The production was being supervised by a staff member Sloan had seen a time or two before, but had never really exchanged words with beyond the obligatory “hello” or “how’s it going?” Presently, he was busily typing what she assumed to be assembly notes onto one of the terminals, though he glanced up at the sound of Sloan and the Gen 1 entering the room.

“Oh,” he said, immediately stepping away from the screen and looking a bit flustered, as if he’d been involved in something decidedly non-work-related and hadn’t expected to see another living soul for several hours yet. “Hello, Miss—ah, _Mrs._ Wilcox. You’re up late! What can I do for you?”

Sloan found herself caught off guard, her mind cartwheeling into confusion until the obvious answer practically slapped her in the face: _Shaun._ Of course Shaun’s full name would have been common knowledge around these parts, even if he were now better known by his alternative moniker.

Her face finally relaxed and she let out a small sound of amusement. It had been many years—not counting the additional 200, of course—since anyone had insisted upon calling her by her husband’s surname.

 _Wilcox._ It almost sounded foreign to her now.

“Actually, I’ve always gone by ‘Sloan’,” she gently corrected him. “But feel free to drop the ‘Mrs.’ That’s what they call my mother. Er…well, they used to, anyway.”

Judging by the sudden awkward expression on his face, he was about to launch into a series of apologies that included the acknowledgement of her dead mother—something she _definitely_ did not want to discuss with a near stranger—so Sloan hurriedly continued, “I couldn’t sleep, so I just figured I’d take a little walk around. Also, this guy here seems to be having some issues,” she added, jerking her thumb toward the Gen 1 who had marched its way toward the maintenance chamber.

The young man nodded eagerly, apparently relieved by the change of subject. “Ah, I see, I see! I’ll take care of it right away.”

Pulling a small, intricate-looking gadget from the pocket of his lab coat, the man strode over to the Gen 1, who had slowed to a stop beside one of the mainframes. Sloan watched with interest as he pointed the device at the synth and then slowly began to move his hand up and down in a scanning motion while it emitted a steady beeping sound. He was presumably half-finished when the scanning device suddenly stuttered and then produced a series of unpleasant noises.

“Hmm…” The man stopped, frowned, and after a moment he regretfully remarked, “Looks like another one for the Reject Room.”

Sloan quirked an eyebrow. “The…’Reject Room’?”

There was a solemn nod. “Indeed.” A sigh followed. “Damn it. We’re running out of space in there. I keep bringing it up in the board meetings but nobody ever does anything about it. This is the third synth in a week!”

“Maybe I can try and talk to Shaun about it,” Sloan helpfully supplied.

He shook his head. “No, never mind. I’d hate to involve you in Institute politics while you’re still adjusting to life down here. However, if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you could escort this heap of junk to the Reject Room for me?”

This was the first she’d ever heard of such a room, though, admittedly, her curiosity was piqued. She considered it during a brief pause, and then shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“Great! You can get there by going through that door and down the hall,” he said, pointing at a darkened door toward the far end of the large main room.

“Alright…” Sloan cast a sidelong glance toward her Gen 1 pal, feeling a bit uncertain. Why couldn’t they just fix it? Why was it necessary to dispose of it in some so-called ‘Reject Room’? She disliked being put in this position yet again, and especially disliked the fact that she was unable to find a reason to refuse.

_Nobody ever gets enough credit for these long con ops._

The Gen 1 followed her obediently as she headed toward the room the man—she’d never asked his name—had pointed out. It made no sound, save for the quiet, mechanical motions as it walked along. It never questioned its fate, just marched onward toward its inevitable end.

A sensor sitting above the door scanned the both of them as they drew nearer, emitting a soft series of beeps before they were granted access. The corridor on the other side was bathed in shadow, save for a blinking red light at the end, and it was only a short walk before they arrived at what had to be the entrance to the Reject Room. It was the only other door, and the letters ‘RR’ were stamped across its reinforced metal casing, right above several hazard symbols and below a black and yellow sign bearing the words, ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY’.

But before Sloan could think to hesitate, there was a muffled ‘click’ and the large, lone door slid open.

The smell that wafted past her nose was reminiscent of the time her car’s engine caught fire while she’d been driving home from college one summer, and a faint _‘tick, tick, tick’_ from her Pip-boy alerted her to a low level of radiation ahead. The room was pitch black, but the bit of red light flooding in through the entrance from outside helped illuminate some of the scenery within.

It was like looking at the inside of an enormous garbage disposal.

Pieces of metal and plastic and other unrecognizable parts littered nearly every inch of the floor. And each time the red light from outside blinked on, she noticed more and more of them.

Bodies.

Synth bodies, to be exact. Most of them in pieces. An arm here, a torso there. A head lying motionless near a pile of mismatched legs. The Reject Room was, predictably, a graveyard for defective synths.

_Was she really just supposed to kick this Gen 1 inside and slam the door?_

As Sloan was weighing her options, glancing at the intact synth beside her, a soft rustling from the room ahead caught her attention.

She froze. “Who’s there?”

There was no reply, but the rustling grew louder and louder, until there came a noisy ‘thump’ as something hit the scrap-covered floor.

Silence.

Sloan pursed her lips, cursing the fact that she’d stupidly left her firearm back in her quarters. She stepped closer, carefully pressing against the doorway as she attempted to peer into the room.

When the red light blinked on once more, a gasp caught in the back of her throat at the sight presented before her.

She stepped back, brow furrowed.

_Shit._

His eyes were open, but lifeless. He stared, not at her but _through_ her. Unresponsive, mouth slightly ajar, strands of long hair swept haphazardly across his face. As if someone had just opened the door and unceremoniously tossed him inside without care as to how he landed.

The light blinked off.

Sloan felt a chill creep its way down her spine, trying to gather her wits, reminding herself that she was undercover and could not afford to break face. Too much was at stake. Emotions were a liability.

But when the light returned, someone new was standing in the room.

She inhaled sharply, taking a couple more steps backward and immediately raising her arms in a defensive stance.

In response, there was laughter. The sound was deep and gravelly, echoing on the walls within the room.

“Now, what’s so shocking to you?” The voice asked in a mocking tone. “You ought to be used to this. You can't protect _anyone_ , after all. Kinda sad, really.”

It took nearly everything she had to keep her voice calm. “Show yourself. Right now.”

“Guess I’m not really surprised,” the stranger continued. “After all, you couldn’t even save your own kid. Just look at you now. What a hero. I bet that husband of yours would've been _proud_ to see this.” He toed the severed head at his feet, sending it rolling forward a couple inches. “ _Poor Gabriel._ Stripped of his identity, and _now_ stripped for parts. Talk about adding insult to injury. Ha! Well, I guess it’s better than being doomed to a life of servitude in this hell-hole. At least he gets to rot peacefully inside here instead of out there, shining Father’s shoes.”

The figure advanced a few steps just as the red light blinked on again. Sloan's eyes widened in sudden recognition before narrowing in disdain, her mouth twisting into a frown.

“ _You._ What are _you_ doing here?”

But the question went ignored. “Hey—he was just a raider, wasn’t he? Who gives a shit? You’ve never thought twice about offing those bozos before.” A pause. “ _Ohh._ But this time it’s different, isn’t it? This time you were doing the _Institute’s_ dirty work.”

Sloan scowled back. “What the hell do you want? Answer me!”

The man standing before her smiled back, teeth gleaming temporarily red. “Ain't it obvious? I'm here to make your existence an absolute Hell. I'm here to make you wish you hadn't ever walked down this road. I'm here to remind you that underneath all that self-righteous, second-chance _horseshit_ you cling to, you're no better than any other miserable bastard in this war-ravaged wasteland. You ain’t even better than me.”

She glared fiercely back at him. “You’re wrong! You’re a monster. I’m nothing like you.”

“That so?” He let out a gruff laugh and took a step toward her. “I hear you’re the Institute’s new errand girl. Guess they had a spot open up after their top dog’s untimely demise.”

“It is _not_ like that.”

He smirked. “Sure, sure. That’s how it starts. You tell yourself you’ll try and get results without hurting anyone. Problem is, the one who ends up most hurt is _you._ After a while, you learn that lesson the hard way. Bit by bit, month after month, year after year…you start to lose pieces of yourself. You trade ‘em in for money, power, status…anything you think is gonna help you get what you want. But nothing is ever enough and they only ask for more, ‘til you got no more pieces left to give. Next thing you know, you’re shootin’ unarmed civilians like fish in a barrel just ‘cause they tell you to.”

Sloan shook her head, never taking her eyes off him. “No, I don’t think that’s true. I think you always had a choice, and you chose to be a piece of shit.”

“Know what _I_ think?” He didn’t wait for her reply before he continued, a faint smirk ever-present on his lips. “I think this life suits you. I think you _like_ living in a world without rules, running around on those dumbass crusades with your little boyfriend, free to do as you please. Take what you want and shoot whoever gets in your way, right?”

“Shut up.”

“Am I wrong? I remember the look in your eyes when we met. Same as a wild animal, ready to lunge and rip me to shreds. Admit it. You _liked_ my blood on your knuckles. You _liked_ my bones crunching under your fists. You _liked_ murdering—”

“SHUT UP!”

He let out a hoarse chuckle, amused by her distress. “Deny it all you want. You got that high and mighty hero image to keep up, after all. But I think deep down, you know it, too.” He stepped into her personal space, a self-satisfied grin twisting his features. “Face it, sister...you're just like _me_.”

“NO!!!” The scream burst from her chest before she could stop herself, and then her fist shot toward his face.

The next moment, she was on the floor; trapped and gasping face-down in complete darkness. An inhuman cry of adrenaline-fueled desperation escaped her lips as she pushed herself up with one hand, her wide eyes searching the shadows for the enemy.

It was another several seconds before she realized she’d fallen out of bed.

She froze, a few strands of damp hair clinging to her lips as she inhaled deeply, her heart pounding wildly against her rib cage.

_It wasn’t real._

Sloan exhaled shakily, sitting back against the bed frame and trying to focus her efforts on regulating her breathing and willing her heart to stop trying to hammer its way out of her chest.

_It was just a dream._

_Not real._

_Kellogg is dead._

In retrospect, sleeping at the Institute had been a _terrible_ idea, but it wasn’t as if she could peace out directly after returning from a successful assignment. She still needed to convince them that she was all in, and someone who was ‘all in’ would want to hang around for a bit and bask in accolades after a job well done. After all, the entire operation depended solely on her success, so Sloan was determined to play the part and demonstrate her ‘loyalty’…even if every second she spent there made her want to crawl out of her own skin and escape through a ventilation shaft.

 _Reject Room._ Sloan snorted to herself. How ridiculous. She ought to have known it was just a dream right then and there.

Untangling the thin sheet from her legs, she stood up and shuffled her way to the bathroom. The small clock on the shelf read 4:47. Too early to be caught wandering around, despite what her dream self had thought, and too late to attempt going back to sleep. It looked as though she’d be killing time until the meeting with Shaun in a couple of hours.

She splashed her face off with cold water from the tap, reflecting on the interaction she’d had with her son upon returning to the Institute directly after parting ways with Deacon.

 _“I’m glad to see you’ve returned safely,”_ he had said, swiveling his chair around to face her when she’d walked into the room.

She’d given him a small, assuring smile. _“I am, thanks to X6. He was a great partner. To be honest, I think he did most of the work. But I can understand why you wanted me to see this for myself. Gabriel, he…he really strayed from the path, and he hurt a lot of people…all because someone thought it’d be a great idea to set him loose out there. This was totally preventable.”_

Was Shaun actually aware of the Railroad’s existence? He certainly knew that _someone_ was out there assisting the synths in their escape. Sloan thought he probably knew much more about it than he was letting on. There was no telling how many synth spies she’d unwittingly encountered during her travels, or what those spies had seen her do, or even what they’d reported back to the SRB. She had already revealed to him that she’d allied herself with a group of people who wanted to destroy the Institute. Whether Shaun had put two and two together and figured out that group was the Railroad remained to be seen.

For the time being, though, she would continue to occupy that precarious grey space between truth and lies, watching and waiting for the right cues.

 _“I whole-heartedly agree,”_ Shaun had said, looking pleased at that fact but still managing to keep a solemn tone. _“I regret having to involve you in such a violent situation, but it seems your experiences in the Commonwealth have served you well. Sadly, we can do nothing for Gabriel’s victims, though we can at least take comfort in the knowledge that the threat has been removed.”_

_“So what happens now?”_

_“B5-92 has been successfully transported back to the SRB. If all goes well, he will eventually return to his original duties. If not…well, unfortunately, due to the meddling of those inexperienced in dealing with a synth’s intricate physiology, sometimes their brains are damaged beyond repair.”_

She really should have seen that nightmare coming a mile away, honestly.

_“At any rate, I couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome. Well done, Mother.”_

He’d then given her a meaningful nod, picked up a several folders stuffed full of documents, and apologized for having to rush out on her to his board meeting. But before he left the room, he’d asked her to return to his office the following morning.

She’d agreed, though she wished she’d been able to come up with an excuse not to.

Head pulsing with a dull headache, Sloan pressed the fluffy, white hand towel to her face for a long moment.

It was never supposed to be like this.

.

oOo

.

“I’m sorry for having to postpone this…well, I suppose it’s not exactly a meeting,” Shaun mused, standing to greet Sloan as she walked into his office. “I must confess, I am unaccustomed to spending time with others outside of work…figuratively speaking,” he added, gesturing to the area around them in acknowledgement of the fact that they couldn’t actually _leave_ the workplace.

Sloan raised her eyebrows just slightly. “Is this not about work?”

“No. I hope that’s alright.” Shaun glanced at his lab coat, which had been laid over the top of his chair. He had traded it for a more casual-looking sweater that morning. “Actually, I was wondering if we might talk a while. I believe there is still much that you and I can learn from each other.”

_Oh._

Sloan allowed a small smile to part her lips. “So you just want to hang out.”

“If that is the terminology you would use to describe it, then yes.”

She nodded. “That’s what we called it back in the day, son. Come on, let’s take a little walk, then. Get your steps in, it’ll be good for your health.”

He chuckled. “If you say so, Mother.”

As it turned out, Shaun wanted to know a bit about his father.

It shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it had. Shaun had been too young to remember her or Nate at the time he’d been taken from them. She could hardly blame him for being curious. Anyone would be.

Still, the initial question had taken her aback.

_‘What was he like?’_

Sloan had spent so much time actively trying _not_ to think about Nate that she didn’t even know how to begin talking about him. Sometimes she felt as though she’d managed to put enough distance between herself and her memories of him that their old life together almost didn’t seem real. Like it was all just a dream. A beautiful, impossible dream. Sometimes she could almost pretend that it had never even happened.

Sometimes she almost felt ready to talk about him.

But then, sometimes he’d appear in her _actual_ dreams. Out of nowhere, he’d surprise her with his picture-perfect smile and the easy laugh she’d fallen in love with, and it would become painfully, heart-wrenchingly clear that she was no closer to healing than she was the moment she’d crawled out of that cryo pod, coughing and shaking and screaming his name.

_‘What was he like?’_

And she was so busy trying to keep herself from feeling anything that she could hardly recall what exactly she had told Shaun about Nate. The answers must have been sufficient, though, because he seemed to accept them quite readily.

Luckily the conversation wasn’t particularly long, as Shaun seemed to be content with what little she revealed to him. He was not one for sentimentality, after all, and his questions ended up having more to do with genetics than the story of how his parents met (which, under other circumstances, would have left her feeling a bit disturbed, but today she found herself grateful for his emotional indifference). For the duration of their stroll around the lower level, conversation was kept a bit lighter. Sloan purposely steered them toward topics that required Shaun to do most of the talking. She prompted him to tell her what kind of childhood he’d had, what sorts of things the Institute taught him, and what it was like to grow up within a scientific community.

None of his answers particularly surprised her.

Eventually the two of them had made it all the way around the perimeter and back to Shaun’s office. Sloan was preparing to bid him farewell, having spent the latter half of their walk coming up with an excuse to leave in between asking him questions.

But before she could open her mouth to say anything, he had turned to face her with a query of his own.

“I had a wonder, Mother,” he began, idly palming the doorway as they passed through it. “Would you like to see him again?”

Sloan blinked back at him. “Who?”

Shaun chuckled. “My apologies. I meant the boy. The synth version of…well, me.”

Her eyes went wide, breath caught in her throat. Words she’d tried to forget played back crystal-clear, forever preserved in memory.

_“Shaun…? Shaun, is that you?!”_

_“Huh? Do I know you, lady?”_

_“You do, but it’s been a long time. I’m your—look, we have to hurry. You aren’t safe here.”_

_“I’m not going anywhere with you!”_

_“Listen, I’ll explain everything, I promise. Just open the door, please!”_

_“Father, she’s trying to kidnap me!”_

_“He’s not your father, Shaun!”_

_“Help! Father, help me!!”_

_Help me._

Her heart sank at the memory. To him, she’d been the villain. And what else had she expected? She’d allowed her emotions to take control. In the end, though, it wouldn’t have mattered. He wasn’t her son.

But the real Shaun was standing before her and waiting for a reply, so she pasted her best fake smile onto her face as she playfully swatted at his arm.

“Why? What would be the point? I have you, now. _You’re_ my son, not that machine…cute as the little guy is.”

There was some amusement in his voice as he said, “Of course. I just thought that perhaps you would be interested in interacting with him now that you know the truth. You’ve appeared quite fascinated by what you have seen of our work thus far. I can assure you, the synth child is like nothing else we’ve ever created.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “So I see. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s incredible what you’ve managed to do with him. From what I’ve seen, he’s truly amazing. It’s just…I don’t know, a bit weird for me. You know, I lost you as a baby and I never got to see you grow up. I can’t really explain it properly, but…he just...reminds me of everything I lost.” Sloan reached for her son’s hand, taking it in her own for a moment and watching the way his brow lifted in confusion, as though such a gesture was utterly foreign. “Shaun, I can’t look at him without feeling that loss. Not yet, anyway. I hope you can understand.”

He was staring down at their hands, but looked back up at her when she gave his hand a squeeze and released it.

“You are still grieving,” he said after a moment, as though such a thing had never occurred to him.

Sloan reached up to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear, offering him a somber, yet apologetic, smile. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“It’s alright, Mother. You _have_ been through quite a lot in such a short time. I suppose I often forget that. You’ve been such a strong presence here, so willing to put the needs of others before your own. While that is an admirable quality, I would ask that you please remember to take care of yourself as well.”

She let out a chuckle, hoping it didn’t sound nearly as forced as it actually was. “I will, Shaun. Thank you. I promise, one day I _will_ be able to go and see your synth self, and _without_ bursting into tears,” she added with a wry smile.

He mirrored her expression. “Take all the time you need, Mother.”

.

oOo

.

Her fingers played along the smooth edges of the thin square object, idly studying its shape and muted two-toned colors, and suddenly her mind was a thousand miles away.

_“A holotape? What’s on it?”_

_“I believe it’s a private message for you,”_ Codsworth had dutifully informed her as he’d presented the small object. _“My etiquette protocols would not permit me to play it for myself._

She’d never listened to it. Truth be told, she’d forgotten about its existence entirely.

But, as it happened, she’d decided to run some of her clothes through the wash before returning to the surface and had discovered the holotape stuffed into the back pocket of a pair of jeans she hadn’t worn in a while.

Still staring at the object in her hand, Sloan let herself sink down onto the bed beside the duffel bag she’d been in the process of rifling through. She absently bit down on her lower lip, recalling that this holotape had been intended as a gift to her from her husband.

Nate…his words, his voice…sealed inside that little piece of technology.

What was it that he’d wanted to say to her?

 _She had never even listened to it._ She hadn’t given it a second thought. So fresh from the vault at the time, finding herself thrust into the chaos of the modern-day Commonwealth and all its dangers, she’d been far too distracted to do any more with it than shove it into her vault suit pocket. Later, when she had managed to pilfer an appropriately wastelander-chic outfit, she’d hastily transferred everything from one set of pockets to another.

At the time, she’d just been focused on finding out what Concord had in store for her.

Sloan felt her heart’s pace quicken at the prospect of hearing his voice again, from both anticipation and dread alike. She ought to listen to it. What if Nate’s message was important?

Closing her eyes for a moment, she let out a long, controlled breath. Then, after several seconds of hesitation, she finally raised her left arm so that she could pop the holotape into her Pip-boy.

She didn’t dare breathe.

The holotape began to play automatically. First, there came a few agonizing seconds of background fuzz. And then—

“Hi, honey—”

Before she could think, Sloan’s fingers were already mashing the eject button. Nate’s voice ceased talking. The noise stopped, and the holotape was in her clammy hand once more.

It was another several minutes before she could breathe evenly again.

.

oOo

.

This was, Sloan mused to herself as she stared out the glassless window nearest her, quite possibly the rainiest December in the history of the Commonwealth. She had no way of knowing this for certain, given the lack of consistent records over the last two centuries, but it sure seemed like the ground hadn’t stayed dry for more than twenty-four hours at a time since somewhere around the beginning of the month.

Still, she supposed things could have been worse. All this rain could have been snow instead, and she didn’t fancy traveling across the frigid wasteland via snowshoe.

Thunder rolled gently in the distance, making it difficult for her to listen in on the conversation happening several paces outside of the rickety shack that served as her cover for the evening. Not that it really mattered whether she heard or not; she had assigned herself to look-out duty. While things had remained on the quiet side, she was just glad to be traipsing about aboveground again _and_ with something to do – however small a job it was.

 _“Me? I’m off to pump some of my tourists for a little intel,”_ Deacon had explained after she’d managed to catch him as he was leaving the crypt that night, though only after attempting to bullshit her with a line about needing to trouble the neighbors for a cup of sugar. _“Our latest package turned up missing, so I thought I’d check in with the postman himself. Do you see what happens when you leave for a day?”_

_“Mmhm. Mind if I tag along?”_

_“’Course not, pal. Unless you wanna, I dunno, treat yourself to a spa day and a mohito instead.”_

_“Doubt even_ that _could wash the taste of Institute sham-burgers out of my mouth,”_ she’d remarked dryly. _“Don’t even ask me what they’re made of. But, hey, whatever you’re up to is probably ten times more fun than what I’ve been doing.”_

He’d conceded with a nod. _“Fair point. Let’s roll.”_

As it turned out, it was really a one-person sort of job. It only required one of Deacon’s disguises and his usual coded banter. She was slightly amused by the fact that he’d let her come along anyway; either he really needed the company himself, or he’d quickly figured out that _she did._

Knowing Deacon, it was likely the latter.

Still, transparent as she may have been, she was grateful that he hadn’t made a big deal of it and simply accepted her offered assistance. That was the nice thing about Deacon—he didn’t ask personal questions, yet he always seemed to understand exactly what she needed anyway.

And tonight, what she needed most was a distraction.

Granted, squatting in the darkness of a broken-down shack and keeping watch over her partner as he chatted up his tourist wasn’t exactly the most engaging task she could have dreamt up, but it was still better than nothing. Besides, the wasteland was unpredictable. For all anyone knew, there could be a Deathclaw hiding out in the cornfield nearby.

The conversation finished, she watched as Deacon’s dusty bowler hat disappeared from view and the man he’d been speaking with returned to his duties in the field. It was another minute or two before she heard footsteps squelching through the mix of mud and grass, followed by the creak of someone’s weight upon wooden floorboards behind her.

“Hey, partner. Thanks for watching my back.”

She turned from the window, giving him a weak grin. “No problem. You just never know when corn will turn on you.”

“I’m lucky to have you in my corner, in that case.” He chuckled softly. “Did I ever tell you about the time I had to brave a tato field by my lonesome? Oh, the carnage. Seeds _everywhere._ My advice? Never call a tato a ‘vegetable’ to its face.”

“Duly noted.”

There was a pause.

“You, uh…you good, boss?” He ventured to ask, instead of checking to see if she was ready to head back like she’d expected him to. “You got that pesky cloud hanging over your head again. I’m starting to think it’s either an Institute-issued accessory, or a serious medical condition.”

Sloan looked up at him and shrugged a shoulder, and she was almost surprised by her own honesty as she admitted, “I guess I don’t know.”

Deacon shuffled a bit closer, though he didn’t say a word. Instead, he silently sat down on the only other chair in the room, narrowly avoiding a steady stream of rainwater from a hole in the roof above him.

Sloan knew the message he was trying to convey. The ball was in her court.

She licked at her dry lips, leaning forward a bit as her arms wrapped more securely around herself. She never really talked about Nate with Deacon. He’d never asked, either, but he _had_ recently revealed quite a bit about himself to her (assuming there was any bit of truth to the tale he’d told, anyway), so a part of her felt the urge to confide in him as well.

He was her partner and, at the moment, her closest friend. Perhaps it couldn’t hurt to get this one thing off her chest. Besides, if she couldn’t talk to him, then who else was there?

“It’s just…Shaun…Father…he had a lot of questions today,” she began, recalling the walk she’d taken with her son that morning. “About Nate. And it’s just got me wondering… What would he have done with all this? Would he be making the same calls I’m making? Would he be running a con against his own son? Sometimes I question myself, you know? Sometimes Shaun just seems so…” Sloan trailed off, shaking her head, unable to string the right words together. “I just can’t help but wonder if Nate would think I’ve turned into some kind of monster. I wonder if he’d even recognize me now. Everything’s just…it’s all so different. _I’m_ different.”

Sloan took half a minute to gather herself again; to keep the emotion from hemorrhaging into her words the way it threatened to, poised at the back of her throat and ready to betray her at a moment’s notice.

“I’m worried that I’m going to start to forget him,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that was practically drowned out by the sound of the rain beating down onto the roof. She swallowed down the persistent lump in her throat, balling her hands into fists in her lap. “You know? His laugh. His smile. The sound of his voice, things like that. I…” Sloan stopped and pursed her lips, not liking how raw she sounded in that moment. Part of her wasn’t really sure why she was even telling him this.

But, perhaps unsurprisingly, Deacon understood.

“You won’t forget,” he replied after a long pause. His tone was reassuring, though there was a sort of hollowness to it all the same. “Not in a million years, Charms. Trust me on that one.”

And, _surprisingly_ , Sloan wasn’t sure if that was the answer she really wanted to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *’Back In Black’ plays in the background* Hey everyone! I know it’s been quite a while! The hiatus was partially due to things being busy in my life, and also due to feeling uninspired. I know some people say that writer’s block isn’t a thing and instead of taking a break you should just push through it, but I felt like the quality of my writing would really suffer if I did that. This story means a lot to me, and I’ve never wanted to give it any less than my best. 
> 
> So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you so much for sticking with me. Thank you for your kind and encouraging words and your continued support. It really means the world to me. I honestly don’t think I’d have gotten this far if not for all of you. Deacon fans are some of the loveliest people on the internet. Seriously, you guys are the bomb dot com. Virtual cupcakes for all! :D
> 
> Anyway, I can’t make any promises on how fast the chapters will come out henceforth, but I can promise that I will not abandon this story. I mean, I already have so many future scenes written, it’d be a crime not to post them (including my personal favorite, which is probably at least 10 chapters away by now). Sometimes my pace may be like that of a turtle wading through molasses in the middle of winter, but I am damn determined to cross the finish line eventually.


End file.
